


Steel, Thrones and Blood

by majorbisexualdisaster



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Death, Dreams, F/M, Killing, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Shapeshifting, War, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorbisexualdisaster/pseuds/majorbisexualdisaster
Summary: "They say your brother can turn into a wolf at night, little dove."Sansa smiles for the first time in a long time. "He can, Your Grace."They all can.**There is a reason House Stark's sigil is a direwolf.AU where the Starks are shapeshifting wolves, set during the War of the Five Kings.
Relationships: Jeyne Poole & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 145
Kudos: 357





	1. The Wolves of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I only write oneshots but, I couldn't get this story out of my head so I figured posting the first chapter of my WIP would give me the motivation to finish this off. Like, the plot is set, I just need to finish writing this. Enjoy!
> 
>   
> **CONTENT WARNING: ANIMAL ABUSE AND MILD GORE AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER**  
> 

Jealousy is a sickly feeling. It is as if there is a swirl of tormenting want pooling in Jon’s veins, macerating his will, stirring his anger. Jon is used to the feeling, the green tint in his vision. He is not, however, used to his jealousy being directed at Arya.

His excitable little sister is running around the castle halls, unable to control her shifting between her direwolf form and her human form. Jon tries to summon a modicum of happiness for her. All he can manage is to long for his own transformation, as unlikely as it is to happen after all these years.

They race into the Stark family’s wing, Arya rapping on a thick wooden door before running to the next, stumbling as her feet shift into paws beneath her. Robb comes out into the hall, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He catches sight of Arya and grins before the muscles beneath his shirt begin to roll, fur begins to grow on his skin, and his bones rearrange themselves underneath his muscles.

Envy pools in Jon’s stomach as Robb shifts into his large, grey direwolf, chasing after Arya.

The maester had told both Jon and Robb when they were young that because of their blood being mixed with southron blood, it might take longer for them to shift. But, like clockwork, when Robb turned three-and-ten, he shifted into an excitable pup. Four years later, both his sisters have shifted, and Jon is still waiting. Though, maybe he can be like his uncle Benjen, who never shifted either, and join the Night’s Watch.

The Starks and Jon head to a private room near his lord father’s solar to break their fast. Both Robb and his father sit near Arya as wolves, soothing her in a way Jon will never be able to. Sansa sits opposite Arya, daintily cutting a piece of egg. His envy crawls back up his throat as he watches Sansa chew. She doesn’t shift. Jon has not seen her shift once in the past year. Why should she be able to when she does not want it? Why can’t Jon?

Arya opens her nameday gifts: sweets from Robb, a drawing from Rickon, a strange rock from Bran, more sweets from their father, a new dress from Lady Catelyn, and a direwolf pincushion from Sansa. She opens Jon’s last—an old, stone arrowhead he bought from a merchant passing through wintertown. Arya beams, racing around the table to throw her arms around Jon. Lady Catelyn sends him a glare but says nothing.

Robb is absent from training—he and their father have taken Arya to the godswood to give thanks to the gods. It is a right of passage for all the Starks, all the descendants of the First Men, with beastsblood flowing through their veins. 

Jon bounces on his toes, waiting for his turn to spar, warding off the chill of the northern air. A lean arm wraps around his shoulders. Jon looks up to see the sneering face of Theon Greyjoy looming overhead.

“Well, bastard, Underfoot seemed quite happy this morning.”

“Aye,” Jon says, stepping out from under Theon’s arm.

Theon smirks, the cruelty of his next insult already dripping from the upturned corner of his mouth. “She’s what? Four years younger than you? I wonder if you’ll ever shift. Maybe it’s better if you don’t, bastard blood and all.”

Indignant, Jon hisses, “I would _never_ —”

“That’s what you say now, Snow, while you can’t.”

Before Jon can defend himself, Ser Rodrick shouts at them to begin their training. Greyjoy struts away with a wink and a smirk. Jon rolls his shoulders before facing Hallis Mollen, one of the guardsmen, training sword dangling loosely from his hand.

He wills his anger away and clears his head. He cannot fight while thinking about Greyjoy’s stupid face and his idiotic words. He draws in a measured, controlled breath and surveys his opponent. 

Jon strikes first, a quick jab at Hallis’ stomach before skirting to the side. While Hallis has more strength than Jon—he has the hulking form of a typical northman—Jon is quicker. He sidesteps a strike aimed for his neck, stumbling slightly as his foot catches on a stone. Hallis is quick to press his advantage, landing a flurry of blows that has Jon quickly retreating.

They circle each other, chests heaving as they look for weaknesses in the other’s defence. Hallis shifts his weight onto his front foot before bringing his sword up in a wide arc. Jon blocks, the strength of the blow reverberating up his arms. 

Jon grunts and spins away. Sweat drips down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but Jon stays focused on the slowly approaching man before him.

Hallis swings at Jon’s head. He ducks the blow and presses in, cutting off Hallis’ reach, tapping his sword against his inner thigh. 

“Yield?” Jon pants, blood rushing through his ears. 

Hallis throws his sword on the ground and smiles at Jon. With a laugh, he says, “Aye, Snow. Now get that thing away from m’cock!”

Jon flushes and stumbles back as the men watching their match laugh. 

Jon spends the rest of the morning sparring in the training yard and refusing to rise to Greyjoy’s deplorable insults. 

His muscles ache as Jon cleans the sweat from his body with a damp washcloth at his water basin. Robb has yet to return from the godswood when Jon heads to the room where they take their lessons. Maester Luwin dismisses Jon and Theon when he notices Robb is not with them and that they have already begun bickering.

He spends the rest of the day hiding in the library, reading about the Targaryens of old. Daylight filters in through small, slitted windows, casting golden bars through the room, shining on the dust that lifts whenever Jon turns a page. 

The Targaryens were also shifters, though their power came from the magic of Old Valyria, according to the maesters. Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters flew through the sky as the most terrifyingly powerful beasts in the world. King Aegon the Third was barely larger than a cat and was so grotesque and deformed he could not even fly. 

The pictures in the book are old and faded: their colour had seeped out of the yellowed pages long ago, and yet, they capture Jon’s interest. The delicately drawn wings, the black skulls of dragons long dead, the painful process of transformation. 

“There you are!” Arya shouts, stomping over to Jon, sending a cloud of dust swirling up from the ground. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Jon smiles and closes the book, watching as his little sister beams as she explains every detail about her day. 

“It hurts a bit,” she says, grimacing as she rolls her bony shoulders back. “Robb and Father say it’ll get better with practice, though.”

“I’m sure it will.”

The supper bell tolls. They make their way across the yard, through the doors of the Great Keep and into the Great Hall. There is a feast celebrating Arya’s three-and-tenth nameday, along with her first transformation. 

The hall is boisterous, ale and wine served freely, the light from the torches sending long, dancing shadows on every wall. Jon sits between Bran and Arya, cutting into the venison on his plate. Lady Catelyn does not spare him a glance, talking in hushed whispers with her lord husband. In this way only, he is grateful to never have shifted—he cannot usurp Robb if he does not have the wolfsblood. Lady Catelyn knows this. Where there once was hate in her heart, there is now only indifference.

Arya chatters away merrily at his side, her words thick and slipping over each other after drinking the cup of wine her mother permitted her. Rickon is falling asleep against Lady Catelyn’s shoulder, drooling on her dress. 

Soon after, the children are ushered out, though the feast is still going strong. Jon takes Arya to bed, holding her up as she stumbles down the hall, half asleep. He leaves her to change into her nightclothes and heads to his room instead of rejoining the celebration.

Jon falls into his furs, hissing as he lands on a black and blue bruise from training, courtesy of Greyjoy. He sighs and stares up at the stone ceiling above, wishing he could shift, even if it was just for one day. It is the closest he could ever get to being a true Stark.

Alas, he wakes the next morning still a man and goes about his day refusing to long for something that will never happen.

* * *

Sansa resolves to never give Arya a nameday gift again. She worked tirelessly to make Arya a pincushion shaped like a direwolf, only to have her sister throw it in the mud! She is so terribly ungrateful. Sansa was just trying to make sewing more interesting for her, considering that Arya loathes it. She did not even thank Sansa for her gift.

A few weeks have passed since Arya’s nameday and her shifting. Her transformation into a direwolf while they are doing their needlework has gotten quite tiresome. And poor Septa Mordane—she nearly fainted the first time Arya did it, destroying her dress in the process.

Mother wrinkles her nose every time Arya does it, turning away as her daughter shifts from girl to beast. She even once overheard Mother ask Father to not sit at the table like an _animal_ just after Robb had shifted for the first time.

“It is a northern thing, Sansa,” Mother had said after Sansa’s three-and-tenth nameday. “It is not like this in the south.”

Mother has adapted to northern life quite well, if the servants’ hushed rumours are to be believed, but not to this. She doesn’t understand shifting and neither does the rest of the south. And if Sansa is to ever go south and marry a handsome lord, she must become a _perfect_ , southron lady.

Father disapproves, he says that the ability to shift is a gift from the Old Gods and that rejecting it is akin to rejecting them. It was not that hard of a decision—Sansa had rejected the Old Gods (and all their gifts) long ago.

As she sits with Jeyne and Beth, her back is as straight as a ruler and there is a pleasant smile on her face as they do needlepoint together. Arya hisses as she pokes her finger with a needle, once again.

Her sister huffs, throws her stitching down and shifts into a direwolf before their eyes, ruining yet _another_ dress Mother will have to mend. Septa Mordane shakes her head but says nothing. It is not as if her septa can drag Arya back when she is a direwolf.

Sansa continues her needlework. This is what it is to be a proper lady. Mother always says that Sansa was a lady at three, with a gentle smile on her face that warms Sansa’s heart.

In the afternoon, Sansa goes to the sept to pray, as she does every day. She and all her siblings were raised under both the Light of the Seven and the Old Gods, though Robb and Arya both will only come to the sept should Mother ask it. Robb says it is because he is the heir to the North and the North follows the Old Gods. Arya says it is because the Seven-Pointed Star is stupid. She says there are too many rules. Jon Snow, her half-brother, was only raised to follow the Old Gods. Bran and Rickon pray in both.

Sansa does not go into the godswood, not anymore.

Candles cast flickering shadows on the walls, the strong scent of incense descends like summer snow. Sansa kneels before the stone statue of the Maiden. She smiles down at Sansa, fine features delicately carved by expert stonemasons. It truly is a beautiful work of art. She lights a candle before closing her eyes. She prays for a betrothal; she is already five-and-ten. She prays for her innocence, for Jeyne and even for Arya.

After a while, Sansa moves to the Mother’s altar. This statue is also skillfully carved, an embodiment of a woman’s gentleness and mercy. Lighting another candle, she prays for her family’s health and for compassion. 

Her knees ache by the time she stands again. Her steps echo loudly against the stone floor as she makes her exit. Sansa stands before the entrance to the sept, stuck with her hand on the door, unable to leave.

Though she has no wish to, her body drags her to the altar before the Stranger. She drops to her knees and prays to them too.

Supper is not a grand affair. As usual, her family dines at the upper table while the household dines at the lower ones. Arya is chatting with Jon Snow; Robb and Theon are whispering about something that has Robb’s face turning into a beet. Jeyne is sitting beside her, talking about her eternal love for Beric Dondarrion.

They sup on meat pies and warm bread and barley stew. It is rather delicious, though Sansa longs for the sweet fruits a merchant once brought from Dorne. It is terribly difficult transporting fresh foods to Winterfell, but it must be quite simple the further south one goes.

Father stands and the conversation in the hall fades into silence. “I have received a letter from King’s Landing,” he says and Sansa’s heart skips a beat. Father is old friends with King Robert, perhaps that is what this is about. But why would he announce it to the entire household? “The King and his court are riding to Winterfell. They should arrive within a moon’s turn.”

What exciting news! She and Jeyne begin discussing what dresses Queen Cersei and her ladies will wear, how handsome Prince Joffrey is, how they might make friends with Princess Myrcella. How surely this must mean Sansa will be betrothed to the crown prince, why else would Father’s best friend come all the way to Winterfell?

Supper lasts much longer than it usually does, and for that, Sansa is grateful. When Mother and Father insist that she go to her chambers, Sansa does so with trepidation. She dismisses her handmaiden after she has changed into her nightdress and brushes her hair herself, counting each stroke until the strands look like red rubies sparkling against her clothes.

With a heavy heart, she lies in her bed, the soft furs tickling her bare calves. Sansa closes her eyes and waits for the dream to come.

It is the same dream every night, sleeping draughts and dreamwine do nothing to stop them. She has had them for as long as she can remember, though, they never used to be like _this_. They have only gotten worse after her three-and-tenth nameday. Maester Luwin believes she stopped having these nightmares years ago.

She wakes in the godswood, though she knows it is a dream. She never goes to the godswood, not anymore. Her breath clouds in the cold air in front of her, gooseflesh raises along her exposed arms. Sansa stands, clutching her tattered nightdress closer to her body.

It is much too quiet. The eerie rustling of the trees above is the only sound she can hear. The darkness surrounds her, oppressing and heavy, cutting off her breath.

A sliver of moonbeam pierces the interwoven canopy of trees above, shining on the curled form of a light grey direwolf. A sob rises in Sansa’s throat as the direwolf stands, its maw opening. Blood drips from its fangs.

“No, no, no,” she cries, lurching back as the direwolf approaches. “Go away!”

The direwolf hobbles forward, its hind leg dragging limply through the humus and moss. It whines as Sansa stumbles backwards, keeping her eyes trained on the animal.

“Go away, please, _please_ , go away. I don’t want to—”

Sansa trips over a branch, falling back on her bottom. The fallen pine leaves scratch at her hands as she scrambles away. The direwolf keeps coming, keening, dripping blood.

Her back hits a tree and she sobs, kicking at the ground as the direwolf approaches. “No, no, please, no, go away!”

The direwolf comes closer and Sansa’s foot connects with its snout. The direwolf falls onto its side, its jaw hanging at an odd angle. Still, it keeps coming, closer and closer, dragging itself with two paws, a trail of blood smearing the ground.

Sansa kicks at it again and again and again until it lies before her, a twitching, bleeding mess in the godswood. As she always does.

She jolts awake, drenched in sweat and sobs into her pillow. As she always does.

Mother says she looks tired as they break their fast. Sansa smiles daintily and finishes chewing her bite of sausage. “The excitement of yesterday kept me awake, Mother.” How long can she use _this_ excuse?

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls, though nobody seems to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome.  
> Find me on tumblr @ [majorbisexualdisaster](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/majorbisexualdisaster)


	2. The Beginnings of a New Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who wrote this instead of doing her french presentation?? lol I hope you enjoy!

The king is...not what Jon expects. They all kneel in the yard as King Robert struggles to dismount from his horse, waiting as one of his squires runs to fetch him a stool. Jon cannot quite believe this is the man from the stories, the man who defeated Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident.

The prince looks the part, at least. Curling blond hair and green eyes have Sansa swooning in the first row. A surge of envy crawls up his throat, though Jon does not understand where it comes from. ( _Bastard._ )

They are all permitted to rise and the king and his father walk towards the crypts. The queen casts a disdainful look around the courtyard before demanding Lady Catelyn show her to her chambers. Jon spends his day before the weirwood tree in the godswood, out of the way of the royal party.

He sits on a bed of moss and soft pine needles, staring through the branches at the pale northern sky. In all the southron books he’s read, their authors always describe the sky as brilliant and bright, a fierce blue. It is as if the North is another world, painted in shades of grey.

He stays there for the entire day, basking in the cool summer air. Jon can almost forget, alone in the woods, who he is, though the word still lingers in the back of his mind. The supper bell tolls and Jon almost stays seated in the soft moss, but his stomach rumbles loudly, breaking the peaceful silence around him.

The Great Hall is packed to the brim. Men, dressed in arms and colours Jon has never seen before, drink and eat heartily, laughing with men Jon has known his entire life. 

Jon squeezes onto the end of a bench filled with Winterfell’s guards. He stares longingly at the high table where his brother is entertaining the princess and Arya is making a catapult of mashed potatoes and aiming it at Sansa.

Jon shakes his head and turns away, pulling a deep drink from the watered-down swill served at the lower tables. The cacophony of drunk voices seems to reach its crescendo, only to outdo itself a few minutes later. Jon sips his drink—if there is one good thing about sitting at the lower tables, it is that he can drink as much as he likes without Lady Catelyn’s disdainful eye trained on him.

“Jon!” someone calls.

He turns and sees his uncle Benjen grinning at him, sliding into the seat beside him. He takes a swing from Jon’s mug and sighs. “It’s better than what we have at the Wall.”

 _The Wall._ He has been thinking for a while about joining the Night’s Watch, swear himself to defending the realm. He doesn’t have wolfsblood, so it is not as if they could reject him.

“Uncle,” Jon says, “could you talk to Father for me? Convince him to let me take the Black. He will let me, if you ask.”

Benjen gives him a dubious look. “Jon, you are not yet a man grown.”

“I will be eight-and-ten on my next nameday. Please, Uncle.”

Benjen stares at him, grey eyes meeting grey eyes. “I will talk to him, Jon. But I make no promises.”

Jon grins. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Benjen leaves to sit up at the high table and Jon continues to drink. The words to the song being played jumble together, leaping and dancing in Jon’s head. When he stands, the world tips and he grabs the edge of the table for balance.

Men’s laughter hits Jon in the chest as he stumbles towards the doors. The stone walls are burning hot as he staggers through the hall, hissing every time he crashes into them. Everything is a blur in his vision, colours bleeding into each other.

He reaches his room and collapses on the floor.

Jon awakes in agony. It is as if every bone in his body has shattered, every shard tearing through his flesh. Searing pain ignites along his back, a scream tears up his throat. The pain is blinding, leaving him a writhing, sobbing mess.

Hot pokers tear through him, eviscerating him. He thrashes around on the floor, bruising and cutting himself as he bangs into hard objects.

Vaguely, he feels something wet and rough drag across his face, but he cannot see what. Gradually, the blinding, stabbing pain recedes to a blistering ache. He blinks open his eyes to find a grey direwolf hovering overhead.

Jon shouts, but the sound no sound comes out of his mouth. Looking down at himself, he finds a large snout obstructing his view and his body covered in white fur. Oh. _Oh gods_.

His ecstasy is short-lived, soon replaced with anguish as he shifts again, burning him from the inside out. Everything in the room swirls and blurs into white-hot torture.

This time, Jon awakes in the godswood, Robb and his father standing near Jon in tattered clothes. He groans and they both rush over, twin expressions of worry etched into their brow. He knows most everyone says Jon looks like his father more than any of his trueborn half-siblings, but he’s not sure he can tell the difference between Robb and his father right now.

Robb props up his head, holding a waterskin to his dried lips. Jon drinks greedily, spilling some onto his wrecked shirt, then turns to his side and heaves it back up. His father presses a cool cloth to his forehead, whispering that he should lay back down.

“Father, what is wrong with him?” Robb asks, running his fingers through Jon’s black curls soothingly.

His father sighs. “The maester said he will have a hard time shifting, at least in the beginning.”

“Because he’s so old?”

His father pauses, then sighs. “Aye. It could be.”

Jon groans as a dull ache thrums behind his eyes. He tries to sit up, but his muscles groan, stiff and smarting.

“Careful, Jon,” his father says, coming and sitting beside him on the ground. “You have been asleep for a few days now.”

“Days?” Jon rasps. Formless visions of writhing and screaming bodies flood his mind, a pain so unimaginable that Jon winces even thinking of it. Other wolves (or was it only one?) were there too, bloodied and broken. He can also remember words spoken, prayers and thanks in front of the weirwood when he was lucid.

Robb helps him sit up against the rough, white bark of the heart tree. Jon sips slowly from the waterskin, the cool liquid soothing his aching throat. It seems as if every muscle in his body has been trampled by a thousand horses, bruised and battered.

“Jon!” Arya shouts, barreling towards him, through the trees.

Robb catches her around the waist and they both tumble to the ground in front of him. “Careful, little sister,” he says, “Jon is still recovering.”

“Jon, I was _always_ here,” she says, her words tripping over each other in a mad rush to free themselves from her mouth. “Mother just made me go take a bath, but I was always here. Tell him, Robb.”

Jon laughs, pain flaring up his sides in a second of suffering. “I believe you,” he says, wincing as he does.

“Normally, we would spend the day practicing your shifting, but I think it is best you eat something other than honey,” his father says.

A bell tolls in the distance and his father looks at him. “Do you think you can walk, son?”

(And oh, how that makes his heart _soar._ )

Jon nods, though he falls flat on his face the first time he attempts to stand. Robb swings an arm around his shoulders and helps him hobble forward. His legs melt beneath him like sweet cream in his mouth, but his brother catches him, and together they stumble towards the castle.

Arya flits around them, regaling Jon with stories of the past few days. “The king asked Father to be the Hand since Jon Arryn died. He’s going south in a few days—with me and Bran and Sansa. You should ask him to come too. We can be knights together with Bran!”

Jon smiles as Arya continues, under her breath, so that their father would not hear. She says that the royal family was offended they were spending so much time with Jon, so Father made Robb spar with the prince and Robb knocked him flat on his _arse_. Robb sends him a smirk and a wink before scolding Arya.

“Pompous prick,” he whispers quietly so that Arya does not catch it.

As they pass the Broken Tower, they all stop in their tracks, smiles falling from their faces. Bran lays immobile on the floor, blood spilling from his head. 

* * *

Bran has still not woken by the time they leave. Father almost had a row with King Robert when he demanded they leave, considering one of his trueborn children might never wake up. Sansa and Bran are not close—she is four years his senior and he is a boy—but seeing him laying there broken and bleeding sent a shock through her. Bran _never_ falls; it is unfathomable to see the proof right in front of her. He looked so small, lying broken in a bed.

The king insisted they leave—Father had already delayed their trip because of Jon Snow—two days after Bran’s fall. They have spent an entire week on the road now, lodging in inns and riding in wheelhouses; once Sansa and Arya were even invited to ride with the queen, because Joffrey is now her betrothed. Though Arya was rather ungrateful and went out riding instead.

The direwolf from her dreams shrieks and growls inside of her whenever she thinks of Joffrey. Truly, she blames this all on Jon Snow. Ever since he shifted (disturbing half the castle while he did, it is not as if shifting hurts _that_ much, from what she can remember), the direwolf has become more aggressive, invading her mind even while she is awake. And when she sleeps, Jon’s direwolf is there, shining white in the darkness. She does not know what that means.

She and Prince Joffrey are walking along the bank of the Trident, arm in arm. Sansa’s already half in love with him (something inside her revolts at the idea) with his golden hair and bright green eyes; there was never a green that bright in Winterfell.

Arya and some boy are playing with sticks on the bank, mud staining their riding leathers up to the knee. The direwolf rears its head, snarling incompressibly in the back of her mind. Joffrey says something and Sansa nods, smiling pleasantly. They head to where Arya and her friend are playing.

The direwolf is writhing its way out of her dream space, nosing its way into her vision. Vaguely, she is aware of them approaching Arya and the boy, but all she focuses on is her mental struggle, trying to push the direwolf away.

Everyone’s words sound as if they are speaking underwater, all thick and garbled. The direwolf is standing beside Joffrey, its light grey coat shining in the light of the sun.

 _Go away!_ Sansa thinks, beseeching the Seven to help her rid herself of this demon plaguing her. _Please, please, please go away!_

She’s pulled back to the scene in front of her. Joffrey has his sword drawn, Arya is standing between the prince and the boy in her direwolf form, snarling. She stares at it in shock. _Will Arya kill him?_

“Stop it!” Sansa screams. “Stop it! Arya shift back _now_.”

“She’s threatening me!” Joffrey shrieks. Sansa notices his sword quivering slightly.

Why must Arya spoil everything? “My prince, she’s not. Please, my prince. She’s being a nuisance. She knows better than to think to hurt you, right, Arya?”

Sansa looks away as her sister shifts back, as if closing her eyes will prevent her from hearing the sickening pops of bone and sinew rearranging themselves inside a living body. When she finally looks back, Arya is dressed in tattered clothes, barely preserving her modesty. Even though, at the moment, Sansa holds no love for her, she unpins her cloak and hands it to her sister. It will not do to have her sister thought of as a slattern.

Arya does not thank her, snatching it out of her hands and ushering the boy away, casting weary glances at Joffrey the entire time. Sansa dreads what Joffrey will say next.

“Was that what your father's bastard was screaming about?”

She takes a deep breath before answering. "It was his first time shifting. It is much less painful the more you do it, my prince."

Joffrey stares at her, disgust in his eyes. "And you? Can you do that?"

Has Arya already ruined her betrothal? Will he ask to break it off? "I—I do not shift, my prince." It is not a _lie;_ lying is a sin. Deception is not.

Joffrey scoffs. “Good. I don’t think I could manage having a mutt for a wife.”

Sansa gapes. _A mutt?_ Is that what he thinks of all the Starks? Of Father? Of Robb? (Of course it is.) Mother and Septa Mordane were never that crass, that cruel. _A mutt?_ Even if they did not understand, they were never purposefully insulting or demeaning. How can—

The direwolf, still standing beside the prince, snarls. Its eyes are black pools of unbridled fury. Sansa does not do anything as it sinks its teeth into the prince’s leg.

Joffrey does not react. Instead, he offers Sansa his arm. She does not take it, clasping her trembling hands together in front of her. 

Joffrey tilts his head, an odd look on his face. “My lady, are you well?”

The direwolf trots away with no blood staining its fur. “I am, my prince. This walk has...tired me quite a bit, I’m afraid.”

They walk back together, the direwolf flitting in and out of Sansa's vision. Joffrey leaves her with her septa.

A messenger summons her to the king's tent, where the queen, Joffrey and the Hound, Arya, and Father are waiting. Arya is standing with her fists curled and her jaw clenched, glaring ahead. Her messy brown hair has flecks of mud splattered in it. Joffrey has a sneer on his face that Sansa may once have found charming, but not now.

 _A mutt. A mutt. A mutt_. Her family.

She curtseys to the king and the queen.

“Sansa,” Father greets, his voice rough with his northern accent. “Could you tell us what happened at the riverbank?”

It is not like she saw _anything_. And she cannot say she was trying to fight back a direwolf that only exists in her mind, they would all think her mad. “I don't know, my lord. I only saw—”

“You were standing _right there!_ ” Arya shrieks. “Stop lying, he was going to hurt Mycah.”

Sansa gapes, unable to form words. Surely Joffrey would have more honour than that.

Queen Cersei sighs. “She must be in shock over her sister's actions. I believe my son and demand your daughter be punished.”

“Dammit woman,” King Robert curses. “Nothing happened. You want to punish a little girl for what? Doing nothing?”

“She threatened Joff, the _crown prince_ —”

“Children fight. Nothing happened. Punishing a girl for threatening—" the king sneers at that word, waving his arms wildly "—Joffrey will only make people think he is weak.” The king levels Joffrey with a stare. “You are not weak, are you, boy?”

“No, Father.”

Father sends Sansa a look, but she can only stand there. She didn't see anything.

She falls asleep that night with relative ease, and for the first time, the direwolf is not in the godswood. 

It is more peaceful than Sansa can ever remember being. The darkness is soothing, as if she is wrapped in a soft velvet cloak. Insects and animals twitter beyond her sight, the wind rustles the trees. 

A snow-white direwolf comes out of the clustering of trees, padding forwards silently. It stops far from Sansa’s reach and cocks its head to the side. Red eyes blink at her. Sansa’s heartbeat thuds in her ears. She wipes her clammy hands on her nightdress. 

The direwolf lays down on the soft ground. It closes its eyes, snout resting on its front paws. Sansa smiles and closes her eyes, slipping into a dreamless sleep.

Sansa’s first view of King’s Landing is impressive. The towering turrets of the Red Keep shining high against the bluest sky Sansa has ever seen. But the closer they get to the city, the less astonishing it seems. Foul smells waft up as they near the Dragon’s Gate, only getting worse the further into the city they ride.

Pressing her sleeve to her nose, she peers out the window of the wheelhouse, catching sight of the drawn faces watching the procession. The closer they get to the Red Keep, sitting high on Aegon’s Hill, the less pungent the smell gets. It fades altogether by the time they dismount in the courtyard.

Jeyne comes up beside her, brown eyes bright with wonder. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, awestruck.

Sansa smiles and nods. “It is,” she says. And that is true enough, the castle is a marvel. Though, as she glances at Joffrey, she cannot help but wonder what the castle’s beauty hides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome.  
> Find me on tumblr @ [majorbisexualdisaster](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/majorbisexualdisaster)


	3. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING: MILD GORE AND DEATH**

Lady Catelyn has not left Bran’s chambers in a moon’s turn. She sits a silent vigil by his bedside, at least, that is what Robb tells Jon. He cannot go into the room, not without her cursing at him. Jon spends his days in the godswood, away from the shell Winterfell has become. Sometimes he trains, sometimes he reads. Jon doesn’t like the darkness clouding the faces of men and women wherever he looks.

Greyjoy soaks in the pools as Jon sits under the weirwood tree. In months past, he might have mocked Jon, they may have fought. Now though, neither is willing to cause Robb any more stress. Robb, with dark shadows under his eyes, worry gnawing away at his flesh. When Greyjoy leaves, he does not bother to preserve his modesty as he gathers his clothes. 

Sometimes, Robb will seek out Greyjoy with a wineskin and a tired smile. Other times, as the sun sets, he will come to the godswood and help Jon with his shifting. It still feels as if his muscles are being slashed by an untrained swordsman, though the entire transformation has shortened substantially in duration.

The sun dips from the sky, and Jon knows it is one of the evenings Robb will spend with Greyjoy. He stands, brushing off stray leaves before disrobing and folding his clothes in a pile. Even if Robb is not here, he must still practice. 

The transformation is torment in the sharpest form. It cuts through him like wildfire scorching him from the inside out, screaming agony up his back. 

It takes a while for it to fade completely. Jon winces as he stands on four, shaking legs. Experimentally, he trots forward, tumbling to the ground. It takes an embarrassingly long time for him to find his feet again. He stumbles around the godswood like a pup.

Jon cannot make a sound while he is in his direwolf form. He cannot whine, nor bark, nor growl. Maester Luwin wrote to the Citadel on Robb’s behest, asking if this was common. The maester who replied said there were no known cases of muteness in any records of a person with wolfsblood, or even any beastsblood. Jon does not care all that much —it is not as if records cannot be lost. 

All his other senses work, though he was concerned with the lack of red and green at first. Robb says that is normal, that wolves cannot see as many colours as men. He can smell more though: the lingering perfumes of women and the harsh sweat of men come to pray. It is still overwhelming, even an entire month later.

Jon falls asleep in the godswood, head on his paws.  He sees Sansa. She is wearing a thin, white nightdress with her hair loose and cascading around her. A single beam of moonlight falls through the canopy of red leaves overhead, illuminating her vivid blue eyes and high cheekbones. She truly is a marvel. Even in his dream state, Jon knows it is wrong to watch her like this, but he cannot help himself. Her presence draws him.

Seven hells, she’s his  _ sister _ . He cannot stop staring.

When he wakes, he washes in the hot springs, hoping that the burning water will wash away his thoughts. 

He dresses and walks back to the inner wall, slipping through the gates. Servants are huddled together in groups, talking in hushed tones. 

One of the kitchen girls runs up to him, dropping into a curtsey but aborting it halfway through. “M’lo —There was an attack, someone tried to kill the little lord.”

“What? Where?”

The serving girl says, “In his room.” She bobs her head before scampering off. 

Jon races through the castle, sprinting past concerned servants as he runs towards Bran’s room. The door is open wide, the soft sounds of sobbing echoing out of the room like a haunting melody. 

A man lies dead on the floor with his throat a mess of mangled flesh. 

Robb is kneeling before his mother, his mouth and chest drenched in blood. Lady Catelyn is crying, her hands dripping blood as she clutches her son closer to her. 

Jon swallows the lump in his throat and asks, “Bran, is he—is he well?”

Robb turns, his eyes two endless pits of rage. His voice is hollow and flat when he says, “He is uninjured. Could you fetch the maester? Mother’s wounds must be tended to.”

Robb comes to Jon’s room that night and they sit side by side in front of the heart, a fragile silence hovering above them.

“I killed him,” Robb says. “I didn’t even—I didn’t think about it.”

Jon bumps his shoulder against Robb’s. “You did what you had to do to protect Bran.” More than Jon did. The library was set aflame, his brother was almost murdered, his siblings’ mother has grievous injuries and Jon was not there to help, was not there to defend his home or his brother. He does not like thinking of where he was (of what he wanted to do).

“I can’t remember his face,” Robb says, staring into the flames like they will give him his innocence back. “Everyone says they always remember the face of the first man they kill. Jon, all I can see is what I did to him. I can’t remember his face.”

“It was to protect Bran, Robb. You had to.” 

“I know,” Robb says. Jon is not sure if he believes him.

They fall asleep next to each other, in front of the fire, like they did when they were boys. But Robb is not a boy any longer. 

“It was the Lannisters,” Lady Catelyn says, folding her bandaged hands in front of her. 

A quiet murmur ripples through the small group gathered in his father’s solar, though now it is Robb’s solar. Jon is not quite sure why he is here, but Robb asked it of him and so he came. 

“Bran does not fall. He has never fallen. We can all agree to this.” She pauses and flicks her cold blue eyes over every single person in the room. “I received a letter from my sister Lysa. She believes the Lannisters poisoned her husband. And if I recall correctly, Jaime Lannister was not out with the king the day Bran fell.”

“My lady, even the Kingslayer would not try to murder a child,” Ser Rodrick says, aghast.

Lady Catelyn shakes her head. “We know not of what the Kingslayer would or would not do, only that he is a man without honour.” She pauses, letting the severity of her words cast the room in a sombre shadow. “We must warn Lord Stark.”

“I will send a raven immediately, my lady,” Maester Luwin says, his chains clanking softly as he stands. 

“No,” Lady Catelyn says, “ravens can be intercepted. I will ride for King’s Landing myself.”

“Mother, you cannot truly be suggesting this,” Robb says, a slight edge creeping into his voice. 

“We need someone trustworthy, someone Ned will believe.”

“Then I will go,” he declares. 

She shakes her head. “Lord Stark left Winterfell in your hands, it must be me.”

“Or me,” Jon says, shocked at his own voice. Lady Catelyn's blue eyes narrow as she looks down at him. “Fa—Lord Stark trusts me. I can ride to King’s Landing quickly.”

Lady Catelyn says nothing, lips pursed as she thinks. “I believe it would be best if I go. Unlike you, I have travelled the kingsroad and know people in King’s Landing that can help me contact Ned without raising suspicion.”

“Mother, are you certain?”

Lady Catelyn and Ser Rodrick depart for King’s Landing at dawn. 

* * *

King’s Landing is delightful, for the most part. The dresses are exquisite and the food is delicious. Sansa has never seen so much fresh fruit in one sitting. A day turns into a week turns into a month and still she cannot help but be excited at everything the capital has to offer.

The throne room terrified her the first time she entered. Sansa could not help but imagine the Mad King sitting high on the Iron Throne, laughing as her grandfather and uncle were murdered. The castle gardens, though, are beautiful, filled with bright flowers and trimmed bushes. Mostly, she spends the days with Jeyne and Septa Mordane, sometimes with Joffrey or the princess, if she is invited to take her meals with them.

Arya rarely joins Sansa, Jeyne and their septa for tea or for stitching anymore, she says she has dancing lessons with a Braavosi teacher. Sansa does not believe her—she always comes back dirty and bruised.

Her sister has just scurried into the sitting room of their shared chambers in the Tower of the Hand, her brown hair coming loose from her braid. Arya does not acknowledge her, slipping quietly into her room. 

Sansa shakes her head and smoothes down the front of her dress. Princess Myrcella has invited her for a walk through the gardens. The princess is wonderful company, even if she is much younger than Sansa. She would have liked it if Arya acted like her, like a gentle lady. 

One of the Kingsguard is standing with Princess Myrcella, his white armour glimmering in the hot summer sun. She grins when she spots Sansa, waving her over to the bush of roses they are standing beside.

“Princess,” Sansa says, dropping into a curtsey when she gets closer. 

“Lady Sansa,” she says, linking her arm through Sansa’s. It is quite uncomfortable, the princess is much shorter than Sansa. Her blonde hair tied in a southron fashion adds an extra inch to her height, and yet Sansa stands a full head taller.

They begin to stroll through the gardens, the Kingsguard knight following a few paces behind. “Father says that he is going to host a tourney,” the princess says, “in honour of Lord Stark’s appointment as Hand of the King.”

Sansa’s heart leaps in her chest.  _ A tourney _ . “Oh, that is wonderful! I have never been to a tourney before.”

“Truly?” The princess looks shocked. “Father hosts them quite often.”

They tour the gardens, stopping and looking at the prettiest flowers Sansa has ever seen. The warm summer sun beats down on them, causing little droplets of sweat to form at her hairline. The princess leaves soon after, as she is attending lunch with her mother.

The tourney is magnificent, though Father does not seem to enjoy it. Knights and nobles from all across Westeros come to compete. Sansa and Jeyne giggle the entire way to the lists as men wearing new armour pass them. Even Arya is excited, though she runs ahead in a very unladylike manner.

Two men mount their horses, a horn blares and the jousts begin. It is over rather quickly, the first knight jabbing the second in his chest and throwing him from his horse. Sansa is enthralled as they continue, the cheers of the crowd soar and swell around her. 

Ser Gregor and a knight in dark armour ride towards each other, the knight’s lance splinters as Ser Gregor deflects it. They pass through the lists again and the dark knight barely keeps his seat. The crowd vibrates with unease as Ser Gregor’s anger mounts. 

The next turn, Ser Gregor’s lance pierces the knight’s armour and comes out bloody through the back of his neck.

A woman screams and faints as the rest of the crowd gasps in horror. 

The knight falls from his horse in front of Sansa, blood gushing from his neck. He gurgles as he sobs. Sansa cannot stop staring, watching the way his life seeps into the ground in front of her eyes. Finally, the man lets out one last whine before he lies dead on the ground. 

Vaguely, she is aware Jeyne is being ushered away and King Robert is saying something. Men come and take the body away and finally Sansa looks up. The sky is too bright and the silence is too deafening. 

She only thinks of the dead man for the rest of the tourney. Sansa smiles and thanks Ser Loras when he gives her a rose, but all she can see is the man with blood spilling from his neck. When Joffrey invites her to the royal pavilion, she claims she feels uneasy and retires to her chambers.

That night, she dreams of the man’s death, over and over again until she is drenched in blood. She watches him die again and again, sometimes at the hand of Ser Gregor, sometimes by her own hand. When she wakes, she vomits into her chamberpot, surprised when she does not see blood. 

A fortnight later, Father returns to the Tower of the Hand with a deep gash in his leg. He is rushed to Maester Pycelle and they slam the door in Sansa’s face when she asks to see him. Arya slips into her room that night and they neither talk nor sleep.

Her vision is blurred when an acolyte knocks on their door and Septa Mordane rushes them down to see Father. They pass Queen Cersei in the corridor on their way down and they discuss her wedding with Joffrey.

Their septa and the queen wait outside as Arya and Sansa run into the room. Arya throws her arms around Father’s neck, squeezing him so tightly Sansa is sure she will injure him. Sansa sits on the other side of his bed, looking at the contraption around his leg: two trusses held together by straps of leather run parallel down it, keeping the reset limb still.

Father insists it is nothing when they demand to know what happened, waving off their questions with vague answers. He grunts as he pushes himself into a seated position, giving both of his daughters a stern look.

“I have arranged a boat to White Harbour for the both of you. It leaves in a sennight.”

And while she does not like  _ Joffrey _ , she still likes King’s Landing. “What? Why?”

“That does not matter,” Father says, placing a hand on their shoulders. “I will not change my mind, you two will go and pack. Tell your septa I wish to speak to her.”

As Sansa and Arya leave, again they cross Queen Cersei and one of her ladies-in-waiting. 

King Robert and his men go for a hunt a day after Father begins to walk again. A great party of men leave the castle, drinking and laughing as they go. Father stays behind to attend the court.

Sansa and Jeyne are walking through the gardens when they run into the princess and her kingsguard knight. The young girl smiles and invites them to join her, disregarding the fact that Jeyne is only a steward’s daughter.

“I cannot wait for you and Joffrey to be wed,” Princess Myrcella says, walking to the left of Sansa. “We will be goodsisters then, I have always wanted a sister.”

Sansa smiles at her, lips tight around the corners. “It will be wonderful, Princess, I am sure.”

She giggles and twirls around. “I can only imagine how beautiful your gown will be. Mother has the best seamstresses in all the Seven Kingdoms being sent here. Oh! Mother said that they are importing Myrish lace soon. It is the most beautiful fabric in all the world.”

A giddy flutter rises in Sansa’s chest. “That would be wonderful. It must be truly exquisite.”

“It is,” she says. “We could visit the seamstress with Mother next week, she is a rather busy woman, I am afraid.”

“That would be lovely, Princess, though I am afraid I will not be here—” Jeyne elbows her in her ribs. 

“You will not be here? Whatever do you mean?”

Sansa flinches as she breathes in, sending a glare to Jeyne.  _ Oh _ . “Only that uh—my lord father and my sister and I are, um, planning on spending the day together. Yes.” 

The princess laughs. “I did not even tell you the day, Lady Sansa. We will make plans later.”

“Of course, Princess.”

She squeezes Jeyne’s hand in thanks.

As they return, men rush past them, panicked shouting fills the halls. Standing on the tips of her toes, she sees King Robert being carried towards the maester’s chambers, a large horn protruding from his bleeding belly. 

Sansa is sitting in a stitching circle the next day when the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor toll in the distance. King Robert is dead and his son is now the Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh...this chapter was just not fun to write, like I couldn't get into it at all. Imma blame it on the christmassiness of everything. Does anyone else hate the holidays? Just me? Alright then.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome.  
> Find me on tumblr @ [majorbisexualdisaster](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/majorbisexualdisaster)
> 
> Ciao


	4. All Men Have Monsters Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter updates might be a bit slower now cause of online school and uni applications but....... here's one now! lol, hope you enjoy it!
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING: GORE AND DEATH AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER**

Bran remembers nothing of his fall, though that is not a surprise. He was strong when Maester Luwin told him he had lost the use of his legs, confident that when he shifted, he would regain them. Robb had pressed and pressed, day and night, trying to get Bran to remember _something_ , to justify sending Lady Catelyn down to King’s Landing. 

Jon stays with his brother at night, until he falls asleep. He tells Bran tall tales of white walkers and the Age of Heros, though Bran does not seem to like them as much as he once did. It is as if Robb’s anger and Jon’s sullenness have seeped into him. Jon cannot remember when he last saw his little brother smile. 

A week after they receive a letter notifying Robb of Lady Catelyn’s impending return, Robb storms into Jon’s room, brandishing another. “It _was_ the Lannisters,” he hisses, shoving the letter into Jon’s hands.

He skims over the words, cold dread pouring over him. It was the Imp’s knife, Lady Catelyn took him prisoner at an inn on the kingsroad. The Imp tried to kill Bran. “Why?” Jon asks, handing back the letter.

Robb paces the room, his fury heating it like a forge. “Does it matter? He sent someone to kill our _brother_.”

Jon says nothing. What is there to say? Bran is not fine, he is not dead, but he is not well. Robb rages and rants before sighing and taking a seat on Jon’s bed. “The Lannisters will not be pleased,” he says.

“No,” Jon answers. From what he saw of Queen Cersei during the royal stay, the Lannisters do not take insults lightly. 

They sit in silence for a while before Robb takes his leave. 

“Get up, Jon,” Robb says from his spot near the heart tree. 

Jon pants on his back, barely able to muster the energy to turn his head. “I can’t.”

“You need more practice.” 

Jon glares at him. “We’ve been practicing for an _hour_ , Robb. I need rest.”

Robb sighs and sinks down to the ground. “This is not natural. The pain should have gone away by now, or diminished somewhat at the very least.”

Jon grunts and closes his eyes. It might not be natural, but it is his lot and he must deal with it. He is thankful that Greyjoy does not come into the godswood when they are practicing his shifting. He could not deal with his amide remarks. 

Jon falls into a doze, halfway between sleep and awake. His entire body aches as if he was older than Old Nan and his mind wanders down happier paths. He and Robb sparring in the courtyard, Arya begging for fighting lessons, Bran practicing archery, reading Rickon stories. Sansa’s—

Groaning as he pushes himself up to a sitting position, he pokes Robb with a long stick. “I’m ready now.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon practicing. Robb tries to teach him how to shift certain body parts and keep the rest human. “If you are in battle, it is important to be able to tell our men from our enemies. If we cannot tell the difference between men in red and men in yellow, we might kill our own. _Practice, Jon_.”

Jon fails spectacularly. 

The next letter they receive is from Sansa. Well, Robb receives it and then tells Jon, “Father’s been arrested for treason. She wants me to go south and swear fealty to Joffrey.”

“Father would never commit treason. How can she say that?”

Robb sighs. “Maester Luwin said they are not her words. That the queen made her write them.”

“Even so, you can’t go, Robb.”

He scoffs. “I know, Jon. I only—I need to think.”

Jon takes it as the dismissal it is and walks towards the maester’s chambers, intent on seeking a salve to ease the pain in his back. While he was training in the yard a few days past, one of the remaining castle guards had struck him hard in the kidney and it had bloomed into a massive set of bruises up and down his back.

When he arrives, Maester Luwin asks him to remove his doublet and tunic. He hisses as he raises his arms to remove his tunic, pain twinging up his spine. 

“What happened?” he asks, worry seeping into his voice.

Jon shrugs, hiding his flushed cheeks behind his hair. “I was sparring with Rass, he has a strong arm.”

Maester Luwin begins fussing with some jars filled with different colour ointments. “That cannot simply be from accidentally getting hit in the training yard. What else—have you and Theon been fighting?”

Jon shakes his head no. He has not seen much of Theon recently. With half the girls in the castle gone, he probably spends most of his days in the brothel at wintertown. 

Maester Luwin comes behind him and slathers ointment up and down his back, ignoring Jon’s insistence that he can do it himself. The ointment is cool and smells oddly like fennel. 

“Use this every night before you sleep,” he orders Jon, pressing the jar into his hand. “If the bruising does not begin to fade within the next three days, come back.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Jon says, walking to the library to take a story book before heading towards Bran’s chambers. 

His brother has fallen into a melancholy state, he eats little and speaks even less. When he does speak, it is usually to ask them all to leave. Rickon and his nurse are already in the room when Jon walks in. He is playing with wooden soldiers on Bran’s bed. 

Rickon jumps up when he sees Jon and demands to know where his mother and Robb are with all the indemnity of a six-year-old child. Jon comes and sits next to Bran, assuring Rickon that Lady Catelyn will be back soon and that Robb has not abandoned him. 

“How are you, Bran?” Jon asks, turning to face his little brother. His auburn hair reaches past his chin now. 

Bran shrugs and looks down at his feet covered with furs. Rickon has his soldiers lined up to attack his wooden monster and they are using his feet for cover.

Jon opens the book to a story about a Stark king of old, waging war against the Red king at the time. Rickon has abandoned his toys and is listening with wide-eyed interest, Bran is staring off in the distance, but his mouth quirks when Jon reads about how the King of Winter’s direwolf tore apart Bolton’s army. 

“Jon,” Robb says, slipping into Bran’s room. “Might I speak with you, for a moment?”

He nods and gets off the bed, settling the open book on Bran’s lap. Robb is silent as he leads him through the halls and back to his solar. His hair is a mess, auburn curls flying everywhere, as if he had run his hands through it a thousand times. 

Once they are in his solar, Robb turns to him, his muscles are all tensed, a vein in his head throbs as he clenches his jaw. “I’ve called the banners,” he says.

“You called the banners?”

“They called Father a traitor, threw him in a cell. Our sisters are being held hostage. What other choice did I have? It’s not as if I could go and swear fealty and everything would disappear in an instant. Men will begin arriving soon.”

Jon nods. They are going to war. Robb is going to lead an army. “When will we leave Winterfell?” he asks.

“I want you to stay.”

“ _What_?”

“Bran is only ten—”

“Robb, you cannot ask this of me.” Fury dances in Jon’s chest, tingeing his vision red. “I’ll not sit safely behind these walls while you go and fight for our family’s return.”

“He can’t run Winterfell like this!” Robb explodes. “He—He is not well and Rickon is only six. Who else is there, Jon?”

“And what will happen when your mother returns and finds _me_ in Bran’s place? In _your_ place?”

Robb sighs. “Mother will understand.”

“No, she will not. And neither will anyone else! I am a _bastard_ , Stark, and I will not be known as a craven. Lord Stark is my father. Arya and Sansa are my sisters.” _Sisters_. Why does that word taste sour in his mouth? “I will fight to bring them home.”

Robb says nothing, so Jon continues, slightly less heated, “Bran is a smart boy. He will do what is necessary. Maester Luwin and Hallis Mollen can help him. Robb, surely you understand _I_ cannot run Winterfell.”

“You have had all the same education as me. You are my brother. You can protect them with most of the men gone.” Jon could tell his resolve was wavering. 

“Winterfell is the safest place for them. Who could attack the North? And it does not matter if I have the same education as you, Robb. I am only your half-brother. I am a _bastard_.”

“I know,” Robb sighs, sinking into the chair behind his desk. “Gods, Jon, I know. I only—I just want them to—it is as if everyone is abandoning them. Rickon would not leave my side the entire month after Father and the girls left. And now we are leaving to go to war.”

Jon says nothing, sitting in the chair before Robb’s desk. The fire in the hearth crackles, warming the room pleasantly. Sansa. Arya. They need him more than Bran and Rickon. They need an army.

“We march south once Lord Karstark and his men arrive,” Robb says. “The houses north of us will come to Winterfell, everyone else will join us near Moat Cailin. I have had Maester Luwin send ravens.”

Jon nods. “We will get them back.”

Robb smiles ruefully. “What other choice do we have?”

Lord Karstark and his men are given three days to rest in and around Winterfell before they begin their march. Rickon cries when Jon bids him farewell in his room, screams and clings to his legs. Bran nods and hugs him tight, wishing him safety. It is harder than he ever thought, leaving Winterfell behind. It is almost as if a piece of his heart is being torn out of his chest and left with his younger brothers. Still, he does not look back as he leaves.

Jon rides with a few of the castle guardsmen from Winterfell, listening to their jaunty banter. Thankfully, he is marching on horseback and has not been walking for hours every day. 

He has seen Robb once during the first sennight of the march, and even then, it was a short encounter. His brother is constantly surrounded by lords trying to garner his attention. Even Theon spends more time with Robb than Jon does, because he’s trueborn, and everyone is neglecting the fact that he is a _hostage_. 

They have made camp for the day, men are gathering by fires and supping on the cured meat and oats brought from their castles. Be it that Jon is not permitted to attend meetings or ride with Robb, being Ned Stark’s son affords him the right to his own tent, however minimal it may be. He is grateful for it though; practicing his shifting is much less mortifying when no one can see him crying naked on the ground.

In truth, he has gotten much better at it. It is still painful, though Jon has adapted well. The more he shifts in one night, the more it begins to feel like his first time, like his muscles are being lacerated by broken bones. He is becoming better, though.

The bruising on his back has not gotten better, but the maester is in Winterfell and Jon still has some salve left.

A skinny boy—no older than two-and-ten—is standing before his tent, hopping from foot to foot, casting his eyes about. 

“Can I help you?” Jon asks. _Have you lost your mother?_

“Are you Jon Snow, milord?” he asks, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes, still hopping in front of him.

Jon nods. “Aye and I am not a lord. What is it to you?”

“Lord Robb asked for you. Said he—said he wanted to see you as soon as he could.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

The boy’s face pales. “Wil. I did everything he asked.” The boy’s words trip out of his mouth so fast Jon has a hard time understanding them. “Please tell him I was good. I—I don’t wanna get eaten.”

“What?”

“The—The guards. They said he’ll turn into a wolf and eat me if I wasn’t good.”

Jon stifles a laugh. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Wil cries. “I saw him change myself.”

“Lord Robb doesn’t eat people, boy. No matter what. Fear not of him.” Jon pats him on his shoulder and heads to Robb’s massive tent, twisting his way around drunk men and giggling whores.

“The guards have little boys believing that you will eat them if they don’t do your bidding,” Jon says as a greeting. 

Robb’s head shoots up off his desk, dried spittle crusted on the corner of his mouth. “Jon, hello. I apologize, I must have fallen asleep.”

Jon smirks. “I can see that.”

“What did you say? I do not eat people, that is abhorrent.”

Jon laughs at Robb’s wide eyes and repeats what he just said. Robb curses and storms outside before coming back in, red-faced. 

“How are you faring, brother?” Robb asks after cooling down. “I feel as if I have not seen you in ages.”

“I am well.”

“Good. How is your shifting going?” 

Jon scoffs. “Well enough. It still hurts.”

“I am glad you are practicing. I had Mikken forge proper armour for you,” Robb says, holding back his smile. “It can shift when you do in battle. And the leather is treated so that it will tear less.”

The steel armour is laid out on a great table. The cuisses and rerebraces look as they normally would, save for slits that run the length of all four pieces. 

“When you put them on your arms or legs,” Robb begins, “make sure that the straps are secure around them, so that they’ll pull the armour closed when you shift.”

Jon nods and eyes the leather brigandine running his hands over the small rivets of metal embedded in it that create square patches that should protect his torso. The armour is strong and stern, like the land they both come from. “Are you certain it will not tear?”

Robb nods. “Not in battle. The more you shift, the further it stretches, but it takes much effort to rip these. They are very heavy, however.”

“Thank you, Robb.” It is a beautiful gift. 

He grins. “You are welcome Jon. Have you eaten yet?” Jon shakes his head no. “Then come, brother. I’ve told the guards I am not to be disturbed tonight.”

They dine on cured meats and oats, same as the rest of the men, though the wine they drink is much better than the piss everyone calls ale. They talk, Robb complains of the petty squabbling of the lords—arguing over ideas and strategies, each vying for their own opinion to influence Robb’s plans. 

“How are the men?” Robb asks. “I fear I rarely have any time to walk in the camp.”

Jon regales him with stories of drunken brawls and merry men. “They are mostly in good spirits, I believe. Though when are men happy to be marching to war?”

An uneasy silence washes over them, thick and painful. They are marching to war. The thought wraps around Jon’s neck, squeezing the air from his lungs. They could _die_ before ever reaching King’s Landing. 

Robb coughs. “Well.”

“I—I should be off now,” Jon says, stretching his arms up in the air, mimicking a yawn.

Robb bids him good night and Jon returns to his tent, stretching out on the hard pad that serves as a bed. 

They cross the Neck with an army of twenty thousand men. Lady Catelyn and Ser Rodrick rejoin them at the Moat, however, Robb sends Ser Rodrick back to Winterfell after a night of rest, to aid Bran. 

Robb sends two thousand men to meet the main Lannister host, while the rest of the men follow him to the Twins. They make camp in front of the northern castle, the rush of the Green Fork loud and overwhelming the noise of the camp. A whole day and night is spent in front of the bridge before they send an envoy into the northern castle. 

Jon is training with some men who had joined him on his ride south the previous week; they use real steel but not proper armour. And although Jon was trained in a castle, the man he is fighting has lived through wars, making the match fairly even. A group of girls comes near them, their dresses cut low. Jon blushes and tries to focus on the fight, but the other man takes his leave and walks towards the group.

“Snow!” someone calls. Jon turns and sees Greyjoy smirking, dressed in a kraken-emblazoned doublet, a wineskin dangling from his hand. “Are the whores scaring you?” he laughs. 

“Shut up, Greyjoy,” Jon hisses, face flaming, as he shakes out of his hold. “What do you want?”

He scowls. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”

This is how it has happened for the past weeks: Robb will send someone to find Jon (usually a serving boy, sometimes Greyjoy) when he has the time. 

Robb is drinking by the time they arrive, not heavily, but his face is flushed. “Arya is going to murder Mother,” he says, offering Jon his wineskin. “And me.”

“Underfoot will run off to Braavos before she marries a Frey,” Theon says, scoffing before sitting at the large meeting table. “Or she’ll murder him in sleep.”

“What are you on about?” Jon asks, sitting at the opposite end of the table, near Robb. He takes a swing of wine. 

“Mother bargained with Lord Frey for passage across his bridge,” Robb began. “Two of his sons are to be fostered at Winterfell, another is to be my squire...Arya is betrothed to Elmar Frey and”—his next words come out in a rush—“I am to marry one of his daughters.”

Theon, Jon begrudgingly admits, is right. Arya will never marry the boy. “Seems a steep toll for a bridge crossing.”

“Aye,” Robb says, leaning over the table to grab the wineskin back. “Some of them are pretty, Mother said.”

Theon gwaffs. “That is what you are concerned about? Not that I would not be, but you could have had your pick of girls and now you are stuck with a _Frey_.”

Robb sighs and turns to Jon. “If only I was a dragon lord. Didn’t they have predestined mates or some such?”

“Horeshit!” Theon shouts. “They just did that so they could fuck their sisters.”

Robb pretends to gag and Jon’s stomach tightens. “Never understood that.”

Jon hums in agreement, snatches the wineskin from Robb and takes a long sip. They spend the night talking and drinking like they would do occasionally at Winterfell, Jon and Theon’s feud on hold for the night. 

In the morning, they make haste for Riverrun. Lady Catelyn’s uncle meets them near Oldstones and the march takes them northwest of House Tully’s castle, to somewhere slightly north of Tumblestone. Word spreads through the camp that they are attacking come nightfall.

Some men are sent with Ser Brynden, wearing Tully colours, to lure the Kingslayer away from his camp and into the valley. 

After tying his hair back, Jon dons his armour slowly, assuring everything is secure. It is much lighter than some of the other armour he has worn and his range of movement is quite unlimited. Swallowing around the knot in his throat, Jon straps his sword to his side and heads to the north of the valley where they will wait for the cover of night. 

Robb is standing across the camp, dressed in armour almost identical to Jon’s. His brother sees him and nods, a grim smile on his face. Jon nods back and heads north of the valley. 

There are men hiding in the trees when Jon arrives with the steady stream of Karstark men filtering into rank. Most of the men are wearing black or grey armour, quiet murmurs pass between soldiers as their horses whinny. Archers line up in front of the first row of cavalry, quivers full of steel-tipped arrowheads glitter in the Riverland sun. 

Jon shifts in his saddle, stomach tightening as the sun slowly sinks beyond the tree line. The first of the Tully banners crosses into the valley at dusk. A hush falls over the men, their harsh breaths sound like war drums in the quiet of the night. 

The rest of Robb’s decoy run into the valley closely followed by Jaime Lannister’s cavalry. The field fills with soldiers in red armour, flying Lannister banners. A horn sounds and the archers launch their first volley of arrows. 

Jon unsheathes his sword, firmly gripping the pommel in his clammy hand. 

The northmen standing at the western and eastern edges of the valley swiftly descend behind the westerman, trapping them in the valley. Suddenly, Jon is storming down into the valley surrounded by screaming northmen.

A man on horseback rushes towards him, sword raised high over his head. Jon blocks the man’s strike above his head, the blow reverberates up his arm. He knocks the man’s sword to the side and drives his through his neck. 

Warm blood splashes over his face as Jon pulls his sword back. Bile sears up his throat but another man is coming towards him. Jon jerks to his right to avoid the strike and tumbles off his horse. 

Cursing, he rolls to his side as a horse thunders where he had once been. Jon stands to his feet, sword gripped tightly in his right hand. A foot soldier comes flying at him, blood dripping down his armour. Jon meets the first strike head first, defends the quick flurry of blows that follow.

He is too late for the man’s next strike and his sword bites into Jon’s shoulder. Jon stumbles away and watches as a mounted northman rides past and cuts the man’s head clean off. 

A horse races towards him and Jon pivots out of the way, driving his sword through the beast’s stomach. The man riding it falls to the ground and screams as his horse falls above him. 

Swords clashing and the sounds of men dying fill Jon’s head as sweat stings at his eyes. The moon provides faint lighting, shining on the Lannister soldiers red capes and banners. 

A loud shout catches Jon’s attention. He turns to find two Lannister men attacking a northman. Shouting, Jon runs over and kicks one of them to the ground. He drives his sword through the man’s chainmail, into his heart.

The other northman successfully kills the Lannister soldier and nods to him in thanks. Somebody dies on a horse above him and Jon is drenched in a rain of his blood. 

His shoulder aches as he wipes the red from his eyes. Two Lannister soldiers descend on him. Blows fall on him like torrents of fire. Jon screams when one of them cuts deep into his arm. Jon ducks the next blow, hitting one of their legs with the flat of his sword. 

The world around him narrows to static as the other man cuts a wide arc near Jon’s head. He curses as the other man stands in the corner of his eye. The first man raised his sword to hit again. A howl sounds somewhere and the man falters. Robb. Jon drives his sword through the man’s leg. He falls flat on his back and Jon thrusts his sword down into his exposed neck. 

The other man barrels towards him, sword raised high. Jon tries to pull out his sword, but it does not come. At the last second, Jon leaves it and rolls to his side. The Lannister man smirks and advances towards him.

Breathing heavily, Jon clenches his jaw and wills himself to shift. His shoulder screams in agony as he falls on all fours, the colours of the world bleeding out into sharp grey lines. The man’s shock freezes him as Jon takes a moment to recover. His face is a picture of terror when Jon leaps, biting into his neck. Hot iron floods into his mouth and coats his muzzle. The man falls, gurgling and clutching his throat.

The horses around him begin to panic, rising on the hindlegs and throwing off their riders. It is thrilling. The armour is uncomfortable but Jon ignores that in favour of tearing off a man’s arm. Sounds attack him from all sides, men dying, horses dying. Jon shakes his head and searches for the next man bearing the Lannister sigil.

A large bear in armour thunders ahead, knocking men aside with her great head. _Mormont_. More horses begin to bolt away, knocking men from their saddles and trampling them under their feet. Without hesitation, Jon charges through men, tearing limbs off and gouging into their throats. Northmen begin to follow him, leaving a trail of dead men behind them. 

Jon’s blood sings as his teeth sink into a Lannister soldier’s leg. The man shouts and spins around, eyes flitting wildly. He sees Jon baring his teeth and stabs his sword against the leather armour covering his back.

The pain in his back is minimal and Jon tears out another part of the man’s leg. A sharp pain spikes through the back of his head and Jon growls silently. His mind screams to hurt him, finish him, _kill him_.

His tail whips behind him as he turns around, teeth bared. The man drops his sword and raises his hands. _Idiot_. Jon lunges, his paws hit his chest and they crash into the ground. His throat is torn out before he can even start screaming. 

All the northmen begin to head towards the center of the battlefield where one of the last fights rage. Jon bites his tongue to keep from screaming as he shifts back, his neck and shoulders crying out in agony. He picks up a fallen soldier’s sword and follows the group of men.

Blood is caked onto his face, iron coating his tongue, Jon walks through the valley. His entire body is screaming at every step he takes. Nausea rolls through him at the sight of dying and dead men. 

Groups of Lannister soldiers are throwing down their arms and surrendering. Across the battlefield, Jaime Lannister drops his sword to the ground and the battle is won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm guessing you're all going _what???? no Sansa????? how dare you???_ but things needed to happen. Don't worry, Sansa will have her own chapter next, both their parts were getting _way_ too long to put in one. 
> 
> Also, it's 5 in the morning and I'm very sleep deprived so if you noticed any glaring errors, please point them out :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ [majorbisexualdisaster](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/majorbisexualdisaster)


	5. Earning her Fangs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, apparently I can only write at midnight which is... not ideal. yeah. Enjoy your reading!!
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING: DEATH AND PHYSICAL VIOLENCE AGAINST A MINOR**

Castle guards rush Sansa to an unknown chamber and refuse to let her leave. The room is much smaller than her chambers in the Tower of the Hand, though they are very fine. The bedding is soft and there is an unlit hearth, though King’s Landing has always been too hot to need a fire. 

A servant comes in with food early in the morning, though she refuses to speak to Sansa. An entire week passes with not one other person coming to see her. The tedium is mind-numbing, and confusion and worry gnaw at her insides. 

Her days are spent peering out the slit windows that look into the garden and her nights are spent wide awake, terrified of why she is being kept.

The wolf from her dreams and visions is nowhere to be seen, not even when she falls asleep for a few hours after days without. No, she is alone.

On the seventh day, one of the guards opens the door and tells her the queen needs to speak with her. Sansa’s heart pounds erratically in her chest. They pass through so many stone hallways, she loses track of where they are. 

Finally, they cross the drawbridge into Maegor’s Holdfast and the guards lead her to Queen Cersei’s solar. The room is large and bright, with many chairs and cushions arranged in a circle. It must be for when she does needlepoint with the ladies of the court.

The queen is sitting on one of the embroidered chairs, her dress crafted from fine green silk. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa greets, dropping into a curtsey as the guards leave. “What is happening? Where is everyone? Why have I not been allowed to leave those rooms? How—”

The queen holds up her hand and Sansa’s mouth snaps shut, cheeks flushing. 

“I understand this is quite confusing for you, Sansa,” she says. “However, we found it prudent to control the situation before bringing you to me.”

“I—I do not understand, Your Grace.”

“Sit,” Queen Cersei says, motioning at the chair across from her. “I have some troubling news to tell you.” She takes a seat on the chair and folds her hands in her lap, picking at the skin growing above her fingernails. 

“Your father is a traitor, Sansa,” the queen says. “He tried to steal the throne from Joffrey.” 

“Father would never do that!” Sansa shouts, jumping up in outrage. “He’s a good man, a loyal man.”

A smile twists its way onto the queen’s features. “If he was a  _ loyal _ man, little dove, he would not have wanted to break your betrothal, nor would he have tried to name himself King.”

“I—he did not, Your Grace. I am certain there was some sort of misunderstanding.”

Queen Cersei curls her lips in distaste, green eyes staring at her with disgusts. “Do not lie to me. I have ears everywhere. You told my daughter your family was planning on leaving King’s Landing soon.”

“I—I—I didn’t.” She did, though. The memory drenches her in ice water. She was with the princess in the gardens, a member of the Kingsguard walking behind them. How could she be so stupid? Father told them not to tell  _ anyone _ .

“Sit down, Sansa.” Still reeling, Sansa does as Cersei asks. “Your father attempted to overthrow the crown, but we stopped him.”

A knot twists her stomach until she is sure she will vomit. Although she is certain she knows the answer, Sansa asks in a shaking voice, “How?” 

“Unfortunately, a large number of your household died during the fighting and—”

“Where is my father?”

Cersei smiles, saccharine and insincere. “Sansa...your father committed treason.”

“Where is he?” He cannot be dead, he simply cannot be.

“He’s in the black cells, awaiting his trial.”

Relief soothes the knot in her stomach slightly. “Where is my sister? And Jeyne Poole, the steward’s daughter? And my septa? When can I see my father?”

Cersei stands and calls for the guards. “I will have the steward’s daughter sent to your room. But first, I need you to write a letter for me.”

Sansa is sick after she writes the letter to Robb, asking him to come and bend the knee to Joffrey. Jeyne comes and sees her wracked with shivers, leaning over her chamberpot as bile seers up her throat. Her friend comes and holds her hair back.

After she washes her mouth with water, she asks Jeyne what truly happened. She begins to sob as soon as she starts. Sansa holds her as she cries and cries. 

“They killed them all,” Jeyne whispers, hiccuping as her tears stream down her face. “The guards, my  _ father _ , even—oh Sansa, even Septa Mordane!”

She’s going to be sick again. “Why would they do such a horrible thing?” Jeyne shrugs and continues to cry. “Have you—have you seen Arya?”

Jeyne shakes her head. “They—the servants said—said she disappeared. No one has seen her—seen her since last week.”

She found a way out of the city. Sansa believes it to be true. Arya is a clever girl, she explored the castle enough to find a way out. She hopes her sister is safe, on her way back to Winterfell. To their mother, to their brothers, to Jon.

Jeyne’s sobs are loud, full-bodied. She shakes as Sansa holds her and pets her hair. They cannot stay here, she knows, they must leave. She needs to get Father and they need to all go home for this nightmare to be over. She must have an audience with Joffrey. He is the king now.

One of the guards bangs on the door. “Stop making so much noise!”

Sansa helps Jeyne onto her bed and walks to the door. “My friend is in pain. Can you bring us some dreamwine?” After a hesitant pause, Sansa adds, “It will stop her crying.”

And if she takes half of it to help herself finally sleep, no one else will ever know. 

She wakes, wearing a dark shift, in a warm cave. Light flickers in from high above her, through a thin red webbing. The walls of the cave pulse in time with her breaths, expanding and retracting with her.

She reaches out to touch and the wall burns her. Sansa hisses as she blows cold air on the burn, ugly red blisters form over her palm.

Backing away from the walls, she looks around the cave, trying to find a way out. The walls all tower high above her, dark like stone and yet, she’s sure they are not made of any stone she has ever seen. 

The heat of the cave is like she is standing right in front of a hearth: thick and oppressive. The closer to the walls she gets, the more the air begins to shimmer with tangible heat. Her shift is drenched with sweat and the cave is getting hotter and hotter.

Above her, the webbing cracks open and light spills inside.

Sansa wakes to her palm stinging. It is covered in burn blisters, red and peeling. 

Her audience with Joffrey is finally granted. All eyes are on her as she kneels on the polished stone floor before the towering throne. It is no less terrifying than the first time she had laid eyes on it. Steps forged of dead men’s steel ascending to a monstrosity of jagged steel edges. The light from the great glass windows behind him cast her in the long shadow of the throne.

Joffrey sits high above her, a gold crown decorating his head. Sansa and Jeyne had practiced what she was planning on saying night and day for a week before her audience.

“Your Grace,” she begins after Joffrey flourishes his hand. “I beg you to show mercy to my father, Lord Eddard Stark.”

“Now, my lady, why would I do that? Lord Stark has committed treason.”

Sansa swallows and nods her head. “I know, Your Grace. All I ask is that you show him mercy. He was injured, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy. He would never do such a thing in his right mind.” She pauses and fists her hands into her dress to stop picking at the bandage around her burn. “He was King Robert’s  _ friend _ . Please, show him mercy, Your Grace.”

Joffrey says nothing. He splays his arm over the side of the throne and hisses as he cuts himself. “I shall discuss your request with the Small Council, my lady,” he finally says.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa says, standing and curtseying once more. 

Joffrey is saying something, making grand gestures as he stands on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. The crowd is jeering. Sansa stands to the side, eyes on Father as he stands in shackles before the people of King’s Landing. His back is as straight as an arrow, mouth pressed in a grim line. He looks as strong as the tall ironwood trees in Winterfell’s godswood. 

Sansa stands taller and smiles encouragingly at Father as he proclaims his guilt. This will all be over soon. Father will go north and join the Night’s Watch, Sansa will get to go home to her family. She is sure Joffrey will show him mercy. 

“My betrothed and my mother wish to show Eddard Stark mercy. To have him swear himself to the Night’s Watch.” The crowd shouts again, loud and rancorous. “I, however, know that mercy should not be shown to men who conspire to usurp the crown!

“Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”

And no, this—it is all wrong. A scream tears out of her as Father is pushed to his knees. She begs and pleads even as Ilyn Payne takes out his sword, takes out  _ Ice _ . She shouts as they push his head to the block. Guards grab her arms to prevent her from running to him.

“Stop! Please, please. Your Grace. Mercy.  _ Please! _ ”

Father is not looking at her. He is looking out in the crowd. Ice gleams high in the midday sun.

The sword passes through his neck like melting snow.

She has half a day to mourn before Joffrey summons her. The guard leads her to a turret where Joffrey is standing with the Hound and Meryn Trant.

She chokes out a seething, “Your Grace,” before glaring daggers at the three men.

“I wanted to show you something, my lady,” Joffrey says. He takes her hand and it is clammy with sweat. She steels herself and allows him to pull her out into the sunlight. “Look.” He points at an object protruding from the side—oh gods.

Sansa shuts her eyes and turns away, swallowing down the vomit that had risen. Father. Father’s  _ head _ . 

“Look at it, my lady,” Joffrey says, grabbing her chin and pulling her eyelids back. “Eddard Stark was a traitor and his death was necessary.”

Sansa shakes out of his grasp and turns away, tears streaming down her face. Joffrey is demanding she turn around, demanding she  _ look _ . She can’t, not now, not ever. 

“Make her look!” he shrieks.

The first blow hits her ribs and her vision spots. It is pain unlike anything, raging wildfire up and down her sides. The second hits her stomach and she cries out, losing the battle against her tears. She sees Joffrey, a maniac glint in his glittering green eyes. 

“Stop, please. I—I’ll look.”

Meryn Trant backs away and Sansa turns to the turret. She stares and stares and stares through her tears. She makes herself a vow: one day, be it tomorrow or in ten years, she will mount Joffrey’s head on the walls of the Red Keep.

Sansa has been in her room for four days and four nights, sobbing with Jeyne when a guard comes to fetch her. In a gruff voice, he says she is to attend court today, at the King’s behest and she wants to scream. Could he not give her a week to mourn? After what he did? Would that be too much to ask after he had her father executed? After he showed her Father’s  _ head _ mounted on a spike?

Every part of her is aching and tired and she wants to refuse, wants to spit in Joffrey’s face. She wants to wake up back in Winterfell, surrounded by her brothers and sister and Father and Mother and Jon. 

Instead, she stands and asks Jeyne to help her dress. She wears a dark wool dress with direwolves stitched on her sleeves. They put white powder under her eyes and on her cheeks. She will not give Joffrey the satisfaction of knowing she was crying. 

Her fury grows with every step closer to the throne room. This is where her grandfather and uncle were murdered before she was ever born, this was where she begged for mercy for her father only to watch him die. She will not beg again.

The room is filled with southron lords and ladies, Joffrey sits high on the Iron Throne, lording above them all. Sansa walks down, passing lords and ladies who did  _ nothing _ to help Father. In front of the bottom step of the throne, Sansa curtseys even as her body rages at her. 

“Lady Sansa,” Joffrey says, standing and walking down the steps of the throne. She bites her lips to stop her smirk as he catches his hand on a jagged piece of metal. “You do not look well.”

She wants to gut him. “I am well, Your Grace.” The honorific tastes like ash in her mouth.

Joffrey laughs, almost manically and takes his crossbow from the Hound. “I have just been informed”— he loads a bolt in the bow— “your family’s treason knows no bounds.”

“Your Grace, I know not—”

“Silence, woman. Your brother is now a traitor, your father is a traitor. It would only lead me to believe that you too are a traitor.” He points the crossbow level with her head.

Sansa gapes. “I—I am not, Your Grace.” She _ will not _ beg. Not even for her life.

“Your brother and his army are cravens, fighting in the dark.” Sansa wants to shout and rage and defend her family. Instead, she stays silent, eyes on the bolt in front of her. “They released wild animals and  _ ate _ my men. I should kill you where you stand. Send that savage you call a brother a message.” His chest heaves and his grip on the bow tightens. 

Sansa is silent. She does not want to die.  _ Please _ . The word catches in her throat, blocking her breath. She is sure she will suffocate, eyes trained on the shining tip of the bow.

“My mother and the Small Council insist we keep you alive, however,” Joffrey says and Sansa inhales silently. “Your brother has captured my uncle Jaime and if I kill you, well, it would not end well for him. I must send my message another way.”

Sansa’s mind races. Mother is back at Winterfell with the boys. Robb and Jon will not be in their right minds when they find out about Father. And Theon Greyjoy and all the other northern lords, all of whom loved him. Seven hells.

“And if they kill him?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, a panicked laugh bubbling up in her chest. “What happens then?”

“Ser Trant,” Joffrey says, glaring at her, “teach my betrothed to speak to me with proper respect or to not speak at all.”

The Kingsguard steps down from the dais, white armour gleaming in the sunlight. His smile is cruel, his full red beard nothing like the smattering Robb had been trying to grow for years. He walks closer and closer but Sansa is frozen to the spot. She wants her brothers, Arya. She wants Jon. And Father and Mother.

The first blow hits her stomach and she stumbles back. It does not hurt as much as his blows on the turret. The direwolf is back, calmly standing near the dais.

He kicks her thigh next and she falls to the ground, crying out, a bruise already forming. Tears come to her eyes and she can’t help it as they fall. Pain blooms everywhere as the blows fall and the wolf does nothing, standing there, staring with golden eyes.

Another blow sends her sprawling onto her stomach and no one is stopping him. No one is stopping him and she cries as her dress is being torn open—

“Help,” she begs through the tears, “please help.  _ Help! _ ”

The stitching is tearing and her voice is hysterical as she begs and begs and  _ begs _ , but not to Joffrey. Her arms reach out and the direwolf turns away and trots out of her vision. Sansa sobs and clutches the tattered remains to her chest.

“Stop it!” That was not her. Through her tears, she can see the Imp walking towards her. He says something, though all she hears is a loud buzzing and her own sobs. 

Somebody drapes a cloak over her and she stumbles out of the throne room. 

She is summoned to Cersei’s chambers days after the incident at court. Some of her ladies-in-waiting and other ladies of the court are gathered around on the chairs and cushions, needlework in their hands. 

Sansa swallows her fear and walks into the room, curtseying stiffly to Cersei. It falls silent as the ladies watch her, waiting for Cersei to respond. Truly, even Sansa does not know why she is here.

“Sansa,” Cersei says, “come, have a drink with me.”

She sits on a cushion near Cersei’s feet, her nose wrinkling every time she sips the sour red wine. It is thinner than blood—when she used to prick her fingers with her needles, she had to suck the blood away—but she imagines it is not, imagines Jon and Robb feasting and drinking flagons of Lannister blood. She imagines she is sitting at their table, joining in the festivities.

“Your brother, Robb, he has never been in battle before.”

The conversations around them quiet again as the ladies watch them with rapt attention. “No, Your Grace. He is only seven-and-ten. We were children during the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

Cersei smiles, the sunlight gleams off her wicked teeth. Sansa stares at her, refusing to bow down. “What do you think they will call this one? The Northern Rebellion, the  _ Stark _ Rebellion? I wonder which house will inherit Winterfell when your brother loses.”

“The Starks have ruled Winterfell for eight-thousand years.”

Cersei scoffs. “Traitor’s blood flows through your veins. All of yours. It will not do to have a Warden of the North who could raise half the continent against us in a moment. No, the Stark name will be no more.”

Her stomach tightens at the thought of Bran and Rickon. They are only children. Sansa raises her cup to her lips and pretends to take a sip, she will not lose her wits in front of these women. Cersei wants her to make a fool of herself, but she is a Stark of Winterfell and ice flows through her veins.

“Unless he wins,” she says, wincing as she remembers the sting of Meryn Trant’s slap. She’s acting like Arya.

Some of the ladies gasp and Cersei narrows her eyes. “What do you know of war, girl? Your brother is an inexperienced  _ boy _ , my father is three times his age, he has fought in half a hundred battles and is an acclaimed strategist. Your brother will lose.”

“He has not yet. If I recall, King Joffrey was so terribly mad the other day because  _ my _ brother defeated  _ your _ brother’s army.” The words fall from her mouth without her permission, fueled by her fiery anger. “Your Grace.”

She scowls and Sansa swears she can hear someone stifling a giggle. Cersei takes a sip of her wine as everyone waits to see what she will do next.

“They say your brother can turn into a wolf at night, little dove,” Cersei says, putting the cup down. Malice and condescension drip from her tongue like sweetwine. 

Sansa smiles for the first time in a long time. “He can, Your Grace.”  _ They all can. Even her. _

“Though,” Cersei continues as if she had not spoken at all, “I only recall your bastard brother crying and screaming in the forest like a little girl. Not very awe-inspiring, would you not say?”

Jon. She is talking about Jon. Why would she mention Jon? He is not leading the army or making the battle plans. Perhaps, with all the men leaving, Robb asked him to stay and guard the boys, however unlikely that would be with Mother at Winterfell. 

Sansa flounders as she tries to respond. She hopes he is safe with her brothers, she could not imagine how terrible it would be if something happened to him in battle. For Arya. Arya would be so sad.

“I—it was his first time, Your Grace. I have—it can be painful, I have heard.”

Cersei and the other women laugh and Sansa looks at her feet, cheeks flushed. 

She is the eldest daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully, these women can have their laughs. She will play this game until her wolf comes back. And then, she will tear out every last one of their throats herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I accidentally made it sound like Jon's first time shifting was like a girl losing her virginity and kinda laughed about it for a couple of hours, my bad.
> 
> I tried to do the book version of the Iron Throne justice, but check out [this drawing](https://www.google.com/search?q=iron+throne+books&rlz=1C1ONGR_enCA934CA934&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiQ8OSdxqvuAhV5GVkFHSzhBrsQ_AUoAXoECBoQAw&biw=1536&bih=722#imgrc=gaKYc9AOVIqcVM) of it. It's fantastic.
> 
> as always, constructive criticism is welcome.  
> Find me on tumblr @ [majorbisexualdisaster](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/majorbisexualdisaster)


	6. Kings and Catastrophes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING: MENTIONS OF DEATH, MENTION OF RAPE, MINOR GORE**

Jon barely makes it back to his tent before retching. The iron tang of blood coats his mouth and half his face. His armour is drenched in it and he can’t stop seeing broken, bleeding bodies. 

He scrubs at his face until the tunic is as bloody as he is. His hands tremble as he tries to undo his armour. He killed— _gods_ , he killed so many men. Finally, the last of his armour falls to the ground in a pile of steel and blood and dirt. 

He vomits again.

Jon doesn’t know where his sword is. Back in the field, he presumes, though the thought of going back there has him retching another time. 

As he pants, his aches and bruises begin to throb. What he would not give for a soak in Winterfell’s hot springs. It is only then he notices his shoulder and upper arm are both still bleeding. 

Venturing out into the camp, Jon stumbles into men drinking and laughing together, clutching his wounds tight. Jon avoids the flagons of ale, avoids being pulled into conversations with men he does not know. 

Half the men in the camp adore him now. They shout praises and thrust mugs of ale at him whenever they pass. The other half retreats in fear when they realize who he is. They eye him wearily, with distaste. He’s not sure if he still has blood on his face. _Men’s_ blood on his face. 

Jon swallows and walks towards one of the women tending to the wounded. “If you can still walk, leave,” she says. “There are others who need me more.”

Nodding, Jon returns to the camp and wraps his bloody tunic around his wounds. The muffled silence in his tent is too much to bear and Jon sets out in search of a drink or twenty. 

He is barely into his cups when Greyjoy makes an unfortunate appearance. “Come Snow, your brother wants to make sure you’re alive.”

Jon stumbles off the bench and follows Greyjoy back to Robb’s great tent. Robb embraces him as soon as he walks in. Jon winces as Robb squeezes his injured shoulder.

They spend the night drinking and laughing because they are _alive_. 

The following morning, the army makes camp outside of Riverrun. Robb and all the other lords are locked away in the castle, discussing battle strategies and such. At least, Jon assumes that is what they are discussing. 

Jon’s arm aches something fierce. He removes the tunic he used as a bandage, pulling some of his skin off along the way. The skin around his cuts is hot to the touch, yellowish pus oozes out from around the wounds.

Men have died from lesser things than an infected wound. 

Jon makes for the healing tent set up in the courtyard. Men moan and scream under the bright sun, men draw their final breaths surrounded by the sickening scent of rotting flesh.

An old woman with deep-set lines and stark grey hair leads Jon to a free seat and pokes at his arm. 

“Take your tunic off, lad,” she says, turning to fetch a flagon from a nearby table. “Boiling wine will kill the infection. _Now_. I don’t have all day.”

Jon winces as his tunic snags on the tender cuts. His back screams as he lifts his arms. Maybe he should ask the woman if she has any of the salve Maester Luwin had given him.

The woman hands him a piece of leather. “Don’t want you biting off your tongue, lad.”

He bites down firmly as the woman approaches with the steaming flagon, muscles clenching the closer she gets. Jon’s hands tighten into fists as she tips the flagon over his shoulder.

The wine is hot, but it does not burn him. It is much like the hot springs in Winterfell: it rides the edge of being unbearable. She must have let it cool off slightly first.

The woman looks at him strangely, dark eyes wide and cogitate. She finishes and wraps his wounds with a clean cloth. “Off you go now, lad,” the woman says, patting him on his good shoulder.

“Could you look at my back first, please?” Jon asks. “I had a salve for the bruising, but it has run out.”

“Sorry lad, if it can’t kill you, I can’t help you. Too many others.”

Jon nods and redresses himself, he can deal with the pain. He makes his way back to the camp to look for something to do.

  


He hears it in passing, on his way back from the courtyard where he had been watching a sparring match. An off-hand comment from a northman Jon has never seen before.

_Eddard Stark is dead._

The world tilts around him, blood rushes through his ears. It can’t be true. By the time Jon is steady on his feet, the man is gone. It can’t be true. Still, the man’s words echo in his head.

Surely Robb would tell him before the camp found out. Surely. He needs to find Robb.

His brother’s squire—the Frey boy—says that Robb was in the godswood, with Lady Catelyn. Jon paces to and fro in front of Robb’s study in Riverrun. The Frey boy sends him odd looks now and again before looking down at his worn boots. 

There must have been a misunderstanding. The man must have misheard a conversation about somebody else. Father can’t be dead.

Robb walks into the hallway with his mother. Both their eyes are rimmed red and their faces are gaunt and hollow.

Something profound and ancient breaks in Jon’s chest. He does not need to say it, Jon already knows. 

“Father is dead.” Robb’s words are harsh and so very distant, worlds away. “Joffrey had him executed for treason.”

 _Father is dead_. 

Jon’s voice has fled, replaced with a lodge of despair in his throat. It is impossible, and yet—Jon looks to Lady Catelyn’s retreating figure—it is true. 

Jon follows Robb into the study. Maps and scrolls are scattered about, their edges blur together, the room blurs together and Jon feels tears rolling down his cheeks. Robb hands him a scroll. The letters are a black blot, but Jon does not need to read them to know what they say.

“I thought we were going to see him again,” Jon says. His voice breaks on the last word. “I—I thought we would win.”

Robb has slumped onto the chair behind his desk, hands pulling at his hair. “I did too. Gods Jon I can’t—I don’t know what I’m doing.” His voice is barely above a whisper, the admission ever so faint. It would not do for a passing lord to hear the Heir to Winter—the Lord of Winterfell. Robb is the Lord of Winterfell and will be until his passing.

Father is dead. Joffrey had him killed based on a lie; Father would never commit treason. Father was innocent, but the Lannisters are not. They arrested Father, and are holding Sansa and Arya hostage.

“Jaime Lannister is not an innocent man,” Jon says, his words hot and spiteful the more he thinks of his family. “He killed northmen, he’s Joffrey’s uncle. Robb—” 

Robb laughs, lifeless and hollow. “I can’t, Jon. If I do, we will have no chance for our sisters’ safe return. And it is not as if I can simply return him to King’s Landing for them, the men would riot.

“Rickard Karstark is already calling for his head. The Kingslayer killed his son—Torrhen, the one that could not shift—in battle. Half the lords agree with him.”

Jon paces across the room. “We cannot do nothing! It’s—It’s—”

“I know, Jon. Believe me.”

That night, he sobs so loud he’s sure the Others can hear him. When he has no tears left to shed, Jon succumbs to the allure of sleep.

  


He wakes on a stony beach. Violent winds whip at his hair as waves crash mercilessly against the shore. Jon stumbles as he tries to stand, falling and cutting his hand on a sharp piece of glass.

When he manages to regain his footing, Jon sees a dark figure standing in the distance. The wind robs his voice when he calls out. He stumbles up the endless beach towards the figure. A man, Jon realizes as he approaches.

The man seems unaffected by the howling wind. His white hair falls lank to his shoulders and his loose clothes remain still. He turns and begins to walk away from Jon, the endless stretch of beach expanding between them with every second.

A clap of thunder as loud as a dragon’s roar startles Jon. He falls again. By the time he stands, the man is gone and in his place remains a massive wall of stone. 

  


Jon walks around the camp in a daze for the next few days. The infection in his shoulder seems to have gone away, though it is agonous when he spends too long sparring. 

The men who know who he is avoid him. If he is being honest, Jon avoids them too. He does not want conversation or pity or sympathy. He wants to fight and hurt and march on King’s Landing and sever Joffrey’s head from his shoulders. 

Robb’s squire comes to fetch him as he is finishing a match with one of the men from Karhold. He is hunched over a map with dozens of markers when Jon walks in. The room is lit with a hundred torches hanging on the walls, though the hall is empty save for his brother.

“Robb,” Jon says, a shallow echo resounds around them. 

Robb stands and dismisses his squire with the wave of his hand. “Come, look at this. The lords are arriving soon and I need to—I want you to be here,” Robb says. “I—you’re my brother.” He does not offer another explanation.

It is a map of the Riverlands, crudely carved wolves and lions are scattered about on the table. “Lord Bolton and his men took Harrenhal,” Jon notes as he spies the marker. 

Robb nods. “I received his missive this morning. We’re cutting off his supply lines, starving him out of the Riverlands.”

Jon nods, eyes tracking across the skillfully drawn lines. Men begin to shuffle in and Jon retreats to the end of the hall. He stands, surrounded by third sons and hedge knights. Men talk and laugh all around him, near his brother, Lord Umber is arguing with Lord Karstark. Robb is looking down at the map splayed across the great oak table, once again.

“Renly Baratheon’s declared himself King,” Robb says, his voice cutting through the chatter like a Valyrian steel knife. “As has Stannis. Though neither of them has the better claim.”

“My lord,” Lord Glover begins, confusion drawing his brow, “surely you do not mean to support that cunt Joffrey after we take the capital? He killed your father.”

“I know, my lord,” Robb says, eerily calm. “And for that, I will see his head severed from his neck. It does not make Stannis’ or Renly’s claim truer. Tommen is Robert Baratheon’s second son.”

“Fuck the Lannisters!” the Greatjon shouts, his voice so loud it shakes the room around them. “Fuck all them southron lords too. What do they know of winter?” Men all around Jon are nodding their heads, entranced by the Greatjon’s speech. “Northmen ruled themselves for eight thousand years before the dragons came. The dragons are all dead now!”

He pulls his sword out of its scabbard and kneels before Robb. “The King in the North!”

The sharp sound of swords being drawn rings out all around Jon as more men take up the cry. 

Across the room, Robb’s eyes find him and Jon bends the knee. “The King in the North!”

  


It is three days after Robb’s coronation that Lady Catelyn summons him for the first time. Dusk is settling on the horizon as men begin to drink and laugh around him. Jon walks with trepidation towards her chambers, legs unsteady beneath him. The young boy sent to fetch him knocks twice, announcing Jon’s presence.

“My lady,” Jon says as he enters. “How can—You asked for me?”

Lady Catelyn sighs and wrinkles her nose. “Yes, Snow. Sit down.” Her red hair is tied back and she is wearing one of her grey dresses from Winterfell. “I need you to talk to my son.”

“My lady?”

“He wants to send Theon Greyjoy to Pyke, to negotiate an alliance with his father. He will not listen to me.”

Jon furrows his brow. Greyjoy is not the nicest of men, to put it mildly, though his personal opinions about Greyjoy do not negate the fact that they need a navy. And the Greyjoys have ships of plenty. “Is that not a good thing, my lady?”

She narrows her eyes and sighs again. “Why did I think—go, Snow.”

Jon stands and exits her sitting room, wildly confused. 

In the following days, Greyjoy is sent to Pyke and Lady Catelyn is sent to ally with Renly Baratheon. While he may not be King, the Tyrell army is much greater than Stannis’s and it is men they need to take the city.

* * *

All her days are spent with Jeyne in their room. The only time they are ever allowed to leave is when they ask to pray in the godswood. She has become particularly pious. 

The godswood of King’s Landing is nothing like the one in Winterfell, from what she remembers. Sunlight falls through the evenly spaced trees, bright like it is simply an extension of the gardens. The heart tree is a great oak tree that towers high above her, but it is not the same. The Old Gods cannot see her here. Still, she and Jeyne go and pray in the mornings, if only to escape for a minute.

It is safer to speak their minds in the godswood, the airy paths between the trees make eavesdropping almost impossible.

“Why didn’t Lord Stark shift?” Jeyne asks, her head bowed as she kneels in front of the heart tree. “He could have saved himself.”

Sansa does not look at her as she responds. “I—I think he knew he could not escape. There was a mob of commoners.” Sansa swallows the bile rising in her throat. 

Jeyne squeezes her hand, and in a hushed voice, she says, “But we could, could we not?” 

Sansa looks at her from the corner of her eye. Jeyne’s dark hair is tied back in a simple knot, brown eyes glittering with excitement. “If you shifted, we could get out. It would be easy to get past the guards with a direwolf.”

A giddy laugh bubbles up in her throat and Sansa digs her nails into her free palm to suppress it. “That’s how Arya did it, I’m certain,” Sansa whispers. She squeezes Jeyne’s hand. “We will need supplies. Food, drab clothing, a horse.”

Jeyne grins. “We can store the bread and you can wear one of my dresses. We can get the horse once we leave the city. Oh, Sansa, we’re going to leave!”

Their hands fall apart to their sides as they stand and brush the dirt from their dresses. The two castle guards that escorted them are playing dice near the edge of the godswood and Sansa is tempted to grab Jeyne’s hand and run. Instead, she clears her throat and lets herself be led back to her room.

As the days go by, their stock of bread steadily begins to grow, hidden underneath some of their dresses. At the moment, it all seems to be in vain, seeing that Sansa cannot shift.

“What do you mean it is not working?” Jeyne whisper-shouts, the edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. “How can it not work?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa wants to scream, instead, her vision begins to blur. “It’s not working, it’s not coming. I—I can’t.”

“Sansa, you _have_ to. Try again.”

“I am trying!” she shouts before slapping her hand over her mouth. The guards never like when they are loud. “I have been trying all day. I just can’t,” she whispers furiously. 

Jeyne sinks onto the bed they share. “We can’t escape without you shifting.”

“I know. I know. I can—I will, I need more time.” Sansa sits down beside her and takes her hand. They sit in silence as the sun tracks its way across the sky. Tears leak from her eyes but Sansa makes no move to wipe them away.

  


The guards wake them in the middle of the night, barely giving them enough time to dress before dragging them to Maegor’s holdfast. Jeyne grips her hand tightly as they cross the grounds. In the distance, she can hear the clang of soldiers marching.

 _Robb. Jon. It must be_. The northerners have come to save them. Jeyne is biting her lip, eyes glittering under the night sky. 

The guards remain silent as Sansa asks them what is happening, a flicker of excitement creeping into her voice. Their dark armour reflects the torches lining the walls of the courtyard. They cross the moat into the holdfast before another small group of ladies. 

The guards split, one of them returning to the keep while the other remains as the drawbridge is lifted close. They quickly make their way to the Queen’s Ballroom, Sansa slippered feet pad silently behind the guard.

He pushes them into the ballroom. All of the noble ladies in King’s Landing are huddled in groups, talking in hushed voices. Sansa grips Jeyne’s tighter, assuring herself she has one ally as the large wooden door slams shut behind them. 

Sansa tugs Jeyne’s hand until they reach an empty table with a pitcher of wine. The torchlight casts flickering shadows across the dozens of women and their dour faces. Cersei sits upon a raised dais, surrounded by Myrcella, little Tommen and her ladies-in-waiting. 

Nearby, a girl no older than Arya cries quietly. Sansa kneels before her, meeting wide brown eyes overflowing with tears.

“My father is—is fighting outside,” she whispers, hiccuping through her sentence, and Sansa’s heart shatters. 

War turns men into monsters, Sansa has heard. War makes them lose their minds if they survive to see the next sunrise, most do not. 

“I’m certain the gods will keep him safe,” she tells the girl. “If you would like, we can pray together.”

She does not tell the girl that she prays for Joffrey’s loss, for her father’s loss. Instead, she holds her hands and sings a song Septa Mordane taught her. Slowly more women gather around and they pray together.

The song ends and the queen catches her eye, a malicious glint flickers before she calls out in a honey-sweet voice, “Sansa, little dove, come here.”

Her children are escorted away as Sansa approaches. Myrcella offers her a worried smile and Sansa arranges her face into something resembling vague assurances. She dips into a curtsey before Cersei. Her hands fidget in behind the folds of her dress, nails digging deep into her palms.

“Your Grace, would you like to pray for King Joffrey’s victory with me?” Sansa asks in a sweetened voice.

She scoffs and takes a sip of her wine. “No, Sansa. And I doubt you pray for my son’s victory with Stannis at our door.”

Sansa’s heart drops. Stannis Baratheon, not her brother, not her family. Cersei smirks and tosses a cushion in front of Sansa. Her mind reels as she sits. Stannis. It is Stannis at the door. Cersei gives her a cup of Arbor gold, the wine is dry as she sips. Stannis. Perhaps Stannis will save her, return her to her family. Perhaps, though it is better not to hope.

The door opens and Ilyn Payne marches in. The knight’s colourless eyes wander around the room before resting on Sansa.

She wants to kill him. The thought is sudden and clear in its ferocity, slashing its way through the fog in her mind. This man killed her father and he now walks around with her house’s sword strapped over his back. 

Wine splashes on the table and it is only then Sansa realizes her hands are shaking. She quickly sets down the cup and looks to Cersei. 

“Ser Ilyn is here at my behest,” she answers Sansa’s unasked question. “To protect us all.”

“The—The guards, there are men fighting,” Sansa stammers, the eerie chill of Ilyn Payne’s eyes crawl up her back like dozens of beetles.

Cersei sighs like Sansa has failed a lesson. “Those men will turn on us the minute the city falls. They are faithful to our coin. You see, little dove, if you are ever to become Queen, you must understand there are few truly loyal men in this world. Drink, girl.”

Sansa sips at the wine. The knight does not seem like the type to protect anyone, much less women and children. “What is Ser Ilyn here to do, Your Grace?”

Cersei laughs. “Clever girl. Let us see, do you know what happens to highborn women at the end of a battle? Hmm, no. Of course, you don’t.” Sansa’s stomach churns as Cersei continues to speak. “Here we all are, sitting like the finest piece of cake in Westeros. It would be quite the rape fest should the city fall.”

Sansa chokes on her wine, coughing and spluttering at her words.

“You are such an innocent little dove, I’m sure the men would love you. But that is why we have Ser Ilyn,” Cersei says, a manic glint in her eyes and a dark threat in her voice, “he will make sure no harm befalls us at the hands of Stannis’ heathen followers.”

She dismisses Sansa soon after and she rushes back to Jeyne. The entire night, she clutches her friend’s hand and prays for her family to come and take her home.

Joffrey’s army vanquishes Stannis’ by the time the sun has risen. The women are reunited with their men, there are celebrations throughout the keep. Sansa and Jeyne are led back to their room. Her legs drag across the yard, heavy and cumbersome. By the time they reach their room, Sansa can barely keep her eyes open.

Sleep settles deep within her before she manages to fall onto her bed.

  


She stands in the same cavern as before, torn red webbing hangs loosely from the crack above her. It is the same as it was before, only the heat is gone, replaced with almost cool, damp air. She lays her hand gently on the dark stone walls, wet and cold to the touch. 

It thrums under her hand, like a living animal. Sansa pushes against it, the stone is almost soft. A loud clap of thunder sounds overhead and the crack in the high ceiling begins to fracture. Sansa presses herself against the wall as rocks begin to rain down from above.

The crack grows larger and larger, branching off into a thousand different cracks that tear the cavern from the top down. They obliterate their way down the sides of the cave in a deafening display. 

Sansa’s heart pounds in her chest as the cave crumbles around her. She raises her arms above her head, avoiding the stones falling from above. Finally, she is standing in a pile of crumbling rocks, arms bloodied with cuts and bruises. 

A violent gust of wind sends her sprawling across the remains of the cave. It is a struggle to regain her footing, the wind is like an army trying to keep her on the ground. Sansa hisses as the jagged rocks dig into her bare hands and feet. 

When she does manage to stand, she finds herself on some sort of beach. The sky above her is grey and the sea in front of her is black and treacherous. 

When she turns, a man is standing in the distance before her, the vicious winds whip at his dark hair. Something deep inside her pulls her towards the man and she finds herself hobbling over the craggy remains.

Sansa’s breath catches in her throat as she meets steely grey eyes, so dark they are almost black.

“Jon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, this was supposed to be up earlier, but people are fucking shitty.  
> anyways, let me know what you thought. my tumblr is [majorbisexualdisaster](https://majorbisexualdisaster.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat


	7. Storm Clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry this is late. I'll try to have the next one up sooner, but I'm taking an extra class this semester and my job is pretty demanding, so, unfortunately, writing has to come second :(  
> Also, Jon is a short king.
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING: DEATH, MILD GORE AND MILD SEXUAL CONTENT** (like it's barely there)

As the northern army moves west, Jon finds himself in a strange relationship with Olyvar Frey. Robb sends him to fetch Jon rather often, now that Theon and Lady Catelyn are both gone. It is slightly humiliating for them both—Olyvar is a year older than Jon and Robb, he is entirely too old to be a squire—though they both have the grace not to mention it.

Sometimes with Robb, their conversations would last barely more than a minute before they lapped into a gentle silence. Though company in silence is always better than solitude. It is strange, their brotherhood is now leaden by the gazes of the northern lords. It pushes down on Jon’s shoulders, like an iron anvil atop a cracking piece of wood.

He can tell Robb feels the same, though it is for different reasons. The bronze circlet adorning his head makes him seem years older than he is, and the lines around his eyes do not fade when he takes it off. They are both tired and so dreadfully alone, even when they are together.

Jon grows wearier by the day. His body aches from riding and his back screams bloody murder whenever a man claps him too hard. His shoulder still aches, though the wound has closed. His life is an endless repetition of riding and walking and sparring and sleeping and talking to Robb.

What he would give to see Arya smiling at him, or to see Sansa’s beautiful face. To see Rickon running wild through Winterfell’s yards and Bran scaling the walls like he used to. To see his father again. The thoughts pang hollowly inside him, deep and painful, over and over. It hurts more than he could have ever imagined, as if he lost a limb he never knew he needed.

The most selfish of his thoughts come late at night. They creep into his mind just as he is falling asleep. Joffrey stole his only chance of ever learning who his mother was. It should not torment him so; he has lived ten-and-seven years without knowing her name. But he made it final, certain. Jon finds himself mourning twice—once for his father and once for his mother, a woman he never knew.

People leave traces within, Jon has learned. They are a part of one’s soul.

They cross into the Westerlands on the north side of the Tumblestone. The river water flows east towards the Red Fork by their side. The journey is tiring and burdensome. The hills of the Westerlands seem to never end, an endless repetition of up-and-down.

They don’t enter Tywin Lannister’s lands through the Golden Tooth. Their route takes them north, over a goat path along the side of a grassy hill. The grass is softer this far south, lush and green. They are summer people, Jon decides. 

As they begin to approach Oxcross, the blood in the camp begins to rise. Men seem to _want_ to be back on the battlefield; it is a feeling Jon does not understand. Or, he does not understand it _now_. It makes him sick to think how thrilling being in battle was. 

But now, his stomach turns whenever he thinks of it, of being drenched in blood and flesh, of seeing men die before his eyes. Why would anyone ever want to experience that again? Jon keeps these thoughts to himself. Men do not whine about battle; it is his duty and he will honour it. 

The cavalry approaches the city in the dead of night. They hide behind two large hills on either side of the city. Jon would have felt exposed to sentries, only there did not seem to be any Lannister guards milling about.

Robb sends Olyvar to get him. The group of northern lords look down at him, not only because they are all taller than he is. Jon joins a group of men and Dacey Mormont who gives him a small smile. 

In the end, there is not much of a battle to be had. 

Jon, Dacey and the men are sent into Stafford Lannister’s camp after nightfall to cut the lines holding their horses. They creep through the darkness, unsheathed knives glittering in the moonlight.

His heart pounds in his ears as they sneak into the edges of the camp. The horses are tied at the northern edge of the camp, whinnying quietly. Jon and Dacey wait at the far end of the makeshift stables for the men to cut the lines.

Dacey is quite tall, at least a head taller than Jon, dressed in armour like his. Beastsblood flows through her veins the same as it does his, though, like her sigil, she is a bear. She has a long face and a thin build, though Jon has seen her fight and knows she is a fierce warrior.

Ahead of them, with the lines cut, the men creep back to avoid the commotion the horses will cause. 

Jon bites his lip as he shifts, grimacing at the flair of pain that lances up his spine even after all this time. 

His eyes focus on the dark bodies of the horses in front of them. The stench of men and animals floods his nose. He growls low in his throat and prowls down to the stables. The horses begin to whine and stamp their feet as he descends. 

Jon leaps forward into the herd, snarling loudly. The ground beneath him rumbles as the horses begin to flee. Dacey grumbles to his side and charges into another group of horses.

Chaos spirals out around them. Horses run rampant, they cause havoc throughout the camp. Fires are set to the tents, men are screaming. 

The men who have managed to don their armour throw their weapons down when they see Jon prowling through the tents. The northern cavalry has come over the hill behind him, shouting loudly. 

The sky is still inky black by the time Rickard Karstark cuts open Stafford Lannister’s throat. The battle was mere hours at most. 

The northmen round up the remaining Lannister cousins and nephews. They are boys, younger than Jon and Robb, who had just witnessed their father’s death. It makes him sick with a vengeful sort of delight.

As day breaks, runners are sent back to the camp to notify them of their victory. Men stumble through the camp, drunk on bloodlust and ale. A few clap Jon on the back when he passes, drunkenly congratulating him, though he is not sure if they know who he is or if they are simply toasting to the simple fact that they are all alive.

Robb finds him nursing a mug of ale someone gave him. There is blood on his face and Jon wonders how he can be smiling with dead bodies being piled on pyres near them.

“We did it,” he says sitting beside Jon. 

“Aye, seems so, Your Grace.”

Robb grimaces at the title, but with men milling about, it is best they continue with formalities. “You are not injured, are you? I could have—”

“I am well, Your Grace. How are you faring?” Jon motions to his face. “You still have…”

Robb flushes as he wipes the dried blood with his hand. “We are marching on the morrow,” he says, “Raiding the coast, taking some minor castles.”

Jon nods and they lapse into an awkward silence, thick with unspoken grief. Robb stands and pats him on his shoulder before moving onto some other part of the camp. Jon finishes his ale before wandering the camp for a place to sleep. 

For the first time, the beach is calm when Jon wakes, though the chill of the ocean seeps deep into his bones. The sky is clouded and grey with a small patch of watery sunlight filtering down to the beach.

The water is dark and murky, black waves break serenely on the shore. The size of it is immeasurable, stretching all the way to the horizon. Jon’s breath catches in his throat. It is like the night sky turned to water. It is unquantifiable and overwhelming. He has never seen something quite so big.

Jon’s knees buckle beneath him the longer he stares, his teeth chatter from the cold but he cannot bring himself to tear his eyes away. It is enthralling and magical, almost ethereal. 

Something deep and treacherous inside him pulls him closer to the water’s edge. It calls him closer with a honey-sweet voice.

“I wouldn’t do that, boy,” a voice says and the harsh cold claws its way back into Jon’s bones. He looks down to see the water all the way up to his knees. Jon scrambles back out of the freezing water, grimacing at the squelching of his boots. 

Jon looks to the man standing high on the shore. He is paler than the most remote northmen, his face is gaunt and his thin lips are cracked and peeling. His eyes, however, are dark and mysterious, full of youth that contradicts the deep lines on his face. It is the man from before, Jon is sure.

“Who are you?” Jon asks.

“I could ask you the same question. You must be important, for the wall to have come.”

“What does the wall have to do with me?”

The man shrugs. “I do not know, but you arrived, then the wall shot up from the earth. I thought you were an imposter at first, you look nothing like the others but—would you _get away_ from the water, boy?”

Jon dutifully steps away, the water logged in his boots sloshes loudly with his every step. “What’s wrong with the water? I’ve never seen anything so dark.”

“Bad things happen to those that dance in those waves. I don’t see them again.” The man begins to walk up the beach and Jon follows behind him.

“What is this place?”

“Are you blind? It’s the beach.”

“Yes, I know that, but what beach? Where are we?”

“Oh, it has been such a long time. I must have forgotten. It matters not now. You need to get rid of that wall. My house is on the other side.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I do not know, boy. You put it there.”

“I—I did not.” Jon pants, slightly out of breath. The man walks quite quickly. “How do I get out of here?”

The man whirls on Jon, fire raging behind his eyes. “Do not leave. Do not go in the water. If you do we’ll never get to see what’s on the other side of that gods-forsaken wall. Honestly, boy, you come here and tear up the beach and now you plan on leaving?”

“I have only been here once before. That is not enough time to build a wall.”

The man stares at him. “Who said anything about building it?”

Jon wakes in waterlogged boots, confused, and as tired as he had been before. 

The camp is lively when Jon joins the living. Men run to and fro, gathering supplies for their horses, others are donning their armour. Jon follows the Stark banners until he reaches a large group of men preparing to march. 

Olyvar Frey finds him and takes him to Robb. Beside him stand Lady Catelyn and a towering woman with straw-like hair. Robb is frowning, his bronze crown rests heavily on his brow. Robb catches his eye and ends his conversation with his mother. 

“Renly is dead,” he says in way of greeting, “Mother and Brienne of Tarth—the big woman there beside her—they claim Stannis’ shadow slew him.”

Jon raises his brows but says nothing. 

“Dacey Mormont quite seems to like you,” Robb continues. “Said you were a skilled fighter.”

Jon flushes. “Right, well…”

Robb laughs and claps him on his back. “Come, brother. We’re marching.”

Some of the northern army is sent raiding along the Westerland coast, while others are sent to drive livestock back to the Riverlands. The main branch of the army follows Robb and they plunder Ashenmark, Castamere and three more of the Westerlands’ gold mines. 

They march on the Crag at night. While they could siege the castle, it is so poorly guarded it is simply easier to storm it.

Two scaling parties are sent climbing over the walls, scuttling shadows in the moonlight. Jon grips his sword tightly as the rest of the army begins to break open the main gate with a ram. His blood is rushing through his ears. A man cries out and Jon sees him tumble from the top of the wall. 

The crack of wood splitting resonates in the night, louder than the shouts of men. His heart thrums in his chest. Jon’s been in so many battles now, yet the fear never goes away. 

Another man falls dead from the wall.

The gate breaks and suddenly they are all on the beach. 

The sun is blinding. Sand spits up around him as men storm forward. Jon cries out as a sword bites into his arm. He hefts his sword up and runs it through the man’s stomach. The gurgling sound he lets out is sickening.

Ahead, he can see a great grey wolf decimating the Westerling defence. Jon slashes at a soldier dressed in red, the sunlight glinting off his armour. 

He passes through the gate. Bodies are strewn about in the sand, being trampled. It is disgusting and dangerous and deadly and a sick, sick part of him _likes_ it. A castle guard rushes at him and Jon runs his sword through his neck.

A man rushes out of the castle, shouting out their surrender and a shout goes up from the northmen. 

It is only then that Jon sees his brother has taken an arrow to the shoulder.

He goes to Robb’s chambers days later, to see how his arrow wound is healing, carrying the tray of food a servant was bringing him. He may also be going to see if Robb knows anything about the beach and the old man he keeps seeing. The dreams keep coming, stranger and stranger than the last, sometimes even during the day now. It seems like something his father would have known and now since… Robb is Lord of Winterfell now, he is the King in the North. 

There is no answer when he knocks on the wooden door, but the maester had most likely given Robb milk of the poppy. Jon will just put the tray in and then leave him be. He can ask his questions later.

He opens the door gently only to drop the tray at the sight that awaits him. Robb and a girl—together—

The girl is scrambling off him and Robb is calling his name but Jon is already halfway down the hall. It’s not that he—Robb can do whatever he wishes with girls. 

He is in the courtyard when Jon realizes he is being stared at. Men’s gazes bore into him and Jon feels foolish. His face is flushed, his breath is coming out in pants, he _ran out of the castle_ because of what? It is not like Robb does not—

A hand on his shoulder startles Jon. Olyvar Frey is looking at him sadly, what must he think of him. “His Grace wants to speak to you.”

Jon truly, desperately does not want to talk to his brother now. Only, he is standing in front of northmen, _Robb’s_ men. He follows Olyvar back into the castle, heart hammering in his chest the closer they get to his chamber.

Robb is sitting up in his bed when Jon enters and he sends Olyvar away with a small thanks. 

“I am going to marry her,” he blurts as soon as the door shuts. “Jeyne—she’s the daughter of the lord here. I am going to marry her, so that if—if she is with child...”

No words need to be said. 

“What about the Frey girl?” Jon asks eventually, his voice hoarse. The question surprises them both.

“I’ve dishonoured her.”

Tendrils of fear creep in. “Lord Frey will not take this slight lightly.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Robb shouts. “I—I cannot leave her here, spoiled, and she could be carrying my child. Jon, I cannot have a bastard.”

It is like a slap in the face. “I would rather be a bastard with a father than a trueborn with a dead father because half his allies left him!”

Tension hangs between them, thick and suffocating. “She comforted me, Jon,” he says quietly, “after I was told. About Theon.”

Dread freezes his blood. “What did Theon do? Robb. Robb, what did he do?”

Robb looks _heartbroken_. He gapes before finding the right words. “He stormed Winterfell. He killed Bran and Rickon.”

Jon’s legs turn to water beneath him. 

He is never going to see them again. Rickon is never going to learn to ride, Bran will never laugh at one of his stories again. They are dead, just like his father. His tears splash down on the stone floor before he realizes he is sobbing.

“I should have—should have stayed with—with them.” His words come out broken, interrupted by tears. He could have defended them instead, he left. And for what? They are no closer to getting their sisters back than they were months ago. Father is dead.

Robb is digging his palms into his eyes. “I should—I should have listened to her. Gods, Jon. It’s all—It’s my fault.”

They sit there and cry for little boys who will never grow into men, for little girls who will never see their fathers again. For lives lost and for lives ripped away. Jon’s tears dry with the sun. 

Lady Catelyn comes in and startles when she sees him, sitting on the floor, though she does not ask him to leave. “You took the Westerling girl’s maidenhead.”

Robb nods and looks at Jon. “If she is with child, I will raise it in Winterfell. I—” he looks at Jon “—made a vow to Lord Frey.”

Lady Catelyn looks between them and Jon sees the relief on her face, relief mixed with something he cannot name. Jon excuses himself and wanders through the castle, hoping some sleep will ease the tight pain in his chest. 

He knows it will not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again... sorry this took so long. our homegirl Sansa will be in the next chapter I promise. Also, the rating might change to Explicit in the future. Maybe. I haven't decided yet, but just like, fair warning. 
> 
> anyways, constructive criticism is always welcome. my tumblr is [majorbisexualdisaster](https://majorbisexualdisaster.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat


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